-  - 


net 


MY   CONFESSION 


Cfe  JSto  tit  n  WSsam't 

w  ^o 


OTHER    TALES. 


ROBERT — "  Here  she  comes." 

[Enter  Violante.'] 

VIOLANTE — "  I  pray  you,  gentlemen,  pass  me  lightly  by :  I  am  too  slight 
a  thing  to  dwell  on." 

Choice  of  a  Wife. 


to  ^  U  0  r  k  : 

J.    C.    DERBY,     119    NASSAU-STREET. 

BOSTON:   PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  A  CO.    CINCINNATI:   H.  W.  DERBY. 

1855. 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 

J.  C.  DERBY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  Di»trict  of  New- York. 


Page 
My  Confession 9 

Sybil  Rivers 65 

Lorraine  Gordon,  A  Biography Ill 

A  Fragment  of  Autobiography 123 

Zoe  Bell's  Birthday 171 

An  Old  Man's  Story 189 

The  Swallows  in  Mr.  Pip's  Chimney 207 

The  Story  of  Hagar 217 


MY    CONFESSION. 


"  THOSE  who  iiave  never  loved  as  thou, 

Will  doubt  in  their  dismay, 
If  Reason  on  thy  burning  brow 

Poured  its  diviner  ray  ; 
They  only  know  that  feeble  Same 
Which  most  may  quench  and  all  may  tame, 

In  their  less  sensate  clay ; 
And  deem  the  heart  may  calmly  bear 
The  frenzied  grief  of  love's  despair." 

WALTER  COLTON. 
"Silently  fell  the  snow  on  her  face, 
Clothing  her  form  in  its  stainless  grace  ; 
As  though  God  in  his  mercy  had  willed,  that  she 
Should  die  in  a  garment  of  purity." 

I  AM  a  woman.  I  have  been  beautiful.  As  I  deem 
beauty  the  pride  and  glory  of  womanhood,  I  should 
become  insincere,  if  I  disclaimed  the  fact  of  once  pos- 
sessing it.  I  have  passed  through  many  trials,  and 
endured  much  sorrow.  I  have  sinned  deeply,  and  in 
my  very  sin  found  punishment. 

For  the  sake  of  those  who  are  rich  in  an  innocent 
youth,  I  shall  lay  bare  my  heart,  and  reveal,  to  the  eyes 
of  the  great  world,  THE  HISTORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  My 

1 


10  MY       CONFESSION. 

hand  trembles  as  I  begin  to  write ;  but  even  if  my  self- 
imposed  task  should  cause  me  to  shed  tears  of  blood,  I 
will  not  falter  in  my  undertaking. 

Heaven  help  me  to  write  the  truth,  the  solemn 
truth,  and  that  only  ! 

My   maiden    name   was  Adzema   V i.     My 

parents  were  Italians.  Although  I  first  saw  the  light 
in  that  beautiful  America,  where  I  am  now  passing  the 
remainder  of  my  burdensome  existence,  I  speak  the  lan- 
guage of  my-  forefathers  purely  and  well.  I  do  not 
think  I  was  ever  young.  As  I  look  back  upon  my 
youth,  and  compare  it  with  the  careless  and  gleeful 
lives  of  children  in  general,  I  am  sure  that  I  was  old 
even  then, — old  in  head  and  heart  experiences.  Of  the 
plays  and  sports  of  other  children,  I  knew  nothing.  I 
was  much  alone  and  isolated,  yet  not  always  unhappy  ; 
for,  by  being  thus  left  to  myself,  I  acquired  a  habit  of 
intense  thought,  which,  young  as  I  was,  proved  a  quiet 
joy  and  companion. 

What  the  circumstances  were  that  thus  made  me 
a  careful,  calculating,  and  reflecting  woman,  before  I 
reached  girlhood,  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  state,  for  I 
should  then  reveal  things  which  are  not  and  never  were 
my  own  secrets,  although  their  consequences  fell  heavily 
on  my  overburdened  childish  heart.  The  grave  cov- 
ers them  now  ;  let  me  not  disturb  them  in  their  repose, 
or  recall  vain  memories  of  a  parent's  misdeeds ! 


MY    CONFESSION.  11 

We  were  poor,  and  poverty  alone  has  enough  wither- 
ing power  to  shut  out  the  natural  joyousness  of  youth. 
I  was  not  an  only  child.     I  had  one  sister,  younger 
than  myself  by  several  years.     She  was  beautiful  as  the 
day,  light-hearted  as  a  bird,  and  the  very  opposite  of 
my  reserved   self.     While  all  deemed  me   sullen  and 
haughty,  she  was  beloved  as  the  spirit  of  sweetness  and 
good-humor.'     Never  poet  or  painter  conceived  a  more 
perfect  form  and  face  than  those  of  my  sister ;  Prome- 
theus himself  might  have  striven  in  vain  to  create  a 
lovelier ; — yet  this  very  loveliness  awoke  in  our  pa- 
rents a  dislike  to  its  possessor.     They  were  Italian  ex- 
iles, and  had  brought  with  them  to  their  adopted  coun- 
try a  strong  love  for  that  of  their  nativity.     Long  ab- 
sence had  strengthened,  rather  than  weakened  their 
patriotism.     When  *Bianca  opened  her  pale,  blue  eyes 
to  the  light  of  day,  my  father  looked  at  her  in  unfeign- 
ed horror  ;  and  as  year  after  year  developed  the  white 
delicacy  of  her  truly  American  beauty,  both   our  pa- 
rents grew  to  regard  her  with  less  love  than  they  did 
myself,  whose  passions  and  appearance  already  beto- 
kened the  fiery  Italian  blood. 

Unnatural  as  it  may  seem,  even  this 'weak  affection 
faded  away  as  Bianca  approached  girlhood ;  and,  had 
she  not  been  removed  from  their  care  at  an  early  age, 
I  am  confident  she  would  have  become,  in  the  course 
of  time,  an  object  of  positive  dislike  to  them. 


12  MY   CONFESSION. 

We  were,  as  I  said  before,  very  poor ;  and  when 
our  landlord's  childless  wife  offered  to  take  my  cheer- 
ful little  sister,  and  cherish  her  as  her  own  child,  our 
father  and  mother  gave  a  ready  consent.  So  Bianca 
left  her  home  for  one  of  greater  luxury  and  wealth,  ta- 
king  with  her  all  the  sunshine  that  illuminated  our 
desolate  abode.  Months  passed  before  I  grew  accus- 
tomed to  her  vacant  place,  OF  ceased  to  miss  her  joy- 
ous pleasantries.  I  was  then  just  entering  womanhood* 
and  she  was  still  a  child.  A  change  soon  fell  upon  us. 
We  often  saw  each  other,  but  our  affection  became 
very  different  from  when  we  were  children  together. 
The  sunniness  of  Bianca's  disposition  caused  her  to 
love  every  one  around  her ;  but  she  was  incapable,  from 
the  very  universality  of  her  good-will,  of  loving  any 
one  person  deeply.  1  hope  in  saying  so,  I  do  not  show 
a  want  of  sisterly  regard  for  the  memory  of  her  who 
will  behold  the  light  of  this  world  no  more.  My  own 
strong  nature  required  a  warmer  love  than  she  had  to 
give  me  ;  and  so  a  coldness  grew  up  between  us,  which 
was  accelerated,  no  doubt,  by  the  disparity  in  our  sta- 
tions. 

They  say  time  has  a  balm  for  every  wound  ;  that 
there  is  no  sorrow  so  severe  as  to  be  beyond  the  power 
of  his  healing.  With  me,  this  has  not  been  the  case  ; 
that  old  rupture  of  a  family  tie,  at  as  late  a  period  as 
this,  has  all  the  freshness  of  yesterday. 


MYCONFESSION.  13 

I  was  born  and  bred  a  Roman  Catholic.  In  my 
earliest  youth  I  was  taught  to  turn  to  my  religion  for 
consolation  in  affliction.  When  my  trials  were  great- 
er than  I  could  bear,  I  found  in  it  that  balm  and 
peace  which  nothing  but  a  religious  belief  can  bestow. 

Thus,  under  all  my  sorrows,  I  was  not  without  a 
Friend,  a  kind,  loving  Friend,  to  whom  all  earthlier 
ones  were  valueless. 

As  far  back  as  I  can  recollect,  I  always  possessed 
a  peculiarly  imaginative  turn  of  mind ;  consequently 
the  visible  services  of  the  Roman  Church  had  for  me 
a  singular  attraction,  fitting  perfectly  to  my  ideas  of 
divine  worship.  Indeed,  at  one  time  of  my  life,  I  was 
so  much  guided  by  my  imagination,  that  I  am  not 
sure  but  my  religion  was  a  species  of  infatuated  ro- 
mance. Be  that  as  it  may,  it  was  to  me  a  haven  of 
rest,  a  Safety  in  which  I  put  a  holy  trust.  If  I  had 
been  told  that  I  should  one  day  refuse  to  believe  in  it, 
I  would  have  thrust  away  the  impious  insinuation  in 
horror.  I  will  not  dwell  upon  the  earlier  part  of  my 
life  ;  it  is  hateful  to  myself,  and  can  convey  no  in- 
terest to  my  readers.  I  would  not,  willingly,  place 
before  any  one  the  harrowing  details  of  an  unhappy 
childhood ;  my  record  being,  indeed,  not  of  the  child, 
but  of  the  woman. 

Circumstances  occasioned  my  marriage  at  an  early 
age, — a  marriage  in  which,  however,  my  heart  was 


14  MY    CONFESSION. 

not  concerned ;  that  long  before  was  given  to  one, 
who,  as  I  thought,  despised  the  gift — for  was  I  not  low- 
born and  poor,  and  he  of  a  high  name  and  higher  es- 
tate ?  I  loved  him  as  only  a  woman  can  love,  and  as 
even  a  woman  loves  but  once. 

When,  attracted  by  my  beauty,  Ralph  Carrington, 
a  man  of  wealth,  intellect,  and  position,  asked  me  for 
his  wife,  my  parents  gave  a  ready  consent ;  and  I,  poor 
fool,  blinded  by  my  wounded  pride  and  bruised  affec- 
tions, yielded  myself  a  willing  sacrifice. 

Unconstrained  as  I  was  in  my  decision  upon  this 
marriage,  I  suffered  much,  more  than  I  can  tell,  as  the 
time  for  its  consummation  approached.  I  well  re- 
member the  agony  I  endured  the  night  previous  to 
my  wedding-day.  During  the  whole  afternoon  I  had 
been  wandering  over  our  little  house,  in  an  uneasy 
and  disturbed  state  of  mind,  flitting  hither  and  thither 
like  a  troubled  spirit.  Finally,  as  twilight  began  to 
darken,  I  went  for  a  few  moments'  repose  to  my  own 
room.  I  was  almost  overcome  by  my  aimless  toil, 
and  the  inward  workings  of  my  poor  passiveness. 
But,  alas !  the  sight  of  the  many  trifling  things  scat- 
tered around  it,  which  he  had  given  me  who  was  so 
soon  to  be  lost  forever,  caused  my  courage  to  fail,  and, 
overpowered  by  sweet  and  bitter  memories,  I  threw 
myself  passionately  on  the  floor,  (no  place  was  low 
enough  for  my  despair,)  and  wept  as,  I  hope,  but  few 


MY    CONFESSION.  15 

women  of  twenty-three  had  wept  before.  My  mothei 
came  to  me,  and  begged  me  to  arise  and  descend  to  re- 
ceive the  greetings  of  Mr.  Carrington's  parents.  In 
a  fury  of  passion  I  refused  to  see  them.  I  was  delir- 
ious under  the  great  burden  of  my  unpaid  love. 

The  night  passed,  and  day,  when  it  dawned,  found 
me  still  lying  there,  moaning  in  childish  helplessness, 
and  weak  and  ill  from  utter  exhaustion.  When  the 
faint  streaks  of  golden  sunlight  came  through  the  win- 
dows, I  tried  to  summon  strength  to  rise  and  arrange 
my  disordered  dress.  My  long,  black  hair  was  torn 
from  its  fastenings,  and  my  whole  appearance  more 
that  of  a  maniac  than  a  woman  in  her  senses.  Stag- 
gering to  the  glass,  I  beheld  a  sight  which  frightened 
me — the  warring  passions,  the  fiery  emotions  that 
were  there  reflected,  made  me  shudder.  I  looked  like 
a  fiend,  but  a  strangely  beautiful  one.  I  could  not 
but  be  conscious  of  my  beauty,  even  in  the  despair  of 
the  hour;  and,  with  a  loud  cry,  I  smote  myself  on  the 
face,  cursing  the  loveliness  that  had  called  forth  the 
hateful  affection  of  the  man  to  whom  I  was  about 
sacrificing  myself — an  emotion  unworthy  the  name  of 
love,  for  it  was  but  a  vile  desecration  of  the  pure  real- 
ity. 

I  opened  a  window,  and  the  cool,  morning  air  blew 
on  my  face  in  welcome  gusts.  I  grew  more  compos- 
ed, my  excitement  passed  partially  away,  and  when  I 


16  MY    CONFESS  ION. 

heard  the  first  faint  stir  of  the  family  about  the  house, 
I  had  become  something  more  like  my  natural  self. 


BY  this  marriage  I  had  two  children,  strong,  robust 
boys,  whose  great  resemblance  to  their  father  shut 
them  out  effectually  from  my  hard,  cold  heart.  I 
could  not  love  them,  although,  in  my  better  moments,  I 
strove  to  do  so — to  love  them  as  much  in  reality  as  my 
conscience  compelled  me,  or  appear  to  love  their  father. 
For,  being  his  wife,  I  endeavored  to  do  my  duty  by  him 
as  faithfully  and  scrupulously  as  mortal  woman  could. 

Wretchedly,  vainly,  six  years  of  my  life  flew  away 
— bitter,  hopeless  years,  in  which  I  repented  a  hun- 
dred thousand  times  the  passionate  error  of  my  youth 
that  had  made  them  so. 

Who  is  there,  if  he  could,  would  not  undo  past 
deeds  ?  Who  is  there,  as  he  looks  back  upon  his  van- 
ished life,  does  not  exclaim  : — "  O,  that  I  could  live  it 
over  again !" 

During  all  these  six  fong  years  I  had  never  seen 
him  in  whose  despite  I  had  made  to  myself  this 
martyrdom.  Shortly  after  my  marriage,  he  sailed  for 
Europe.  He  never  wrote  to  me  ;  but  it  was  not  mine 
to  forget,  even  though  forgotten!  Let  me  not  be  so 
unjust  to  myself,  however,  as  to  insinuate  that  I  ever 
thought  of  him  in  any  way  as  connected  with  the  fu- 


MY     CONFESSION.  17 

ture,  which  my  husband  himself,  jealous  as  was  his 
natural  disposition,  might  have  condemned.  He  had 
known  all  at  the  time  of  our  marriage.  I  was  far  too 
proud  to  conceal  from  him  not  only  that  I  did  not  love 
him,  but  also  that  I  loved  another.  Low  as  I  valued 
the  nature  of  his  love,  and  as  I  value  it  now,  it  must 
have  been  intense  and  strong  to  have  still  compelled 
him,  after  such  an  avowal,  to  wed  me. 

In  the  sixth  year  of  our  marriage,  my  husband,  on 
account  of  ill  health,  was  ordered,  by  his  medical  ad- 
visers, to  a  warmer  and  less  variable  climate  than 
that  of  North  America. 

We  went  to  Italy,  balmy,  poetic  Italy — the  native 
land  of  my  exiled  parents — my  own  ideal  of  an  earth- 
ly paradise ! 

The  first  breath  of  real  happiness  that  I  had  drawn 
for  many  a  day  was  when,  indistinctly  and  in  the  dis- 
tance, I  beheld  the  blue,  curving  lines  of  the  Italian 
shores.  My  rapture  settled  down  to  a  still  and  in- 
ward joy,  when,  after  travelling,  by  slow  degrees, 
through  the  most  interesting  portions  of  the  country, 
we  at  length  took  up  our  residence  in  a  fantastically 
charmimg  villa  near  Rome.  Speaking  Italian,  I  soon 
grew  as  accustomed  to  Italian  life  as  if  I  had  known  no 
other.  My  husband's  lavish  expenditure  on  the  reali- 
zation of  my  slightest  whim,  surrounded  me  with  every 
luxury  that  had  ever  entered  the  imagination  of  man. 

1* 


18  MY    CONFESSION. 

If  I  had  not  been  happy  before,  I  was  happy  then. 
Beautiful,  beautiful  Italy !  never  shall  my  sinful  eyes 
grow  purer  by  looking  on  you  again ! 

Two  years,  brief  as  they  were  delightful,  passed 
thus. 

One  night  (how  well  I  remember  it !)  as  I  was  being 
dressed  for  afeledl'Anglaise  which  was  to  take  place  in 
my  own  house,  a  servant  came  to  inform  me  that  a  man 
desired  to  see  me,  and  was  waiting  for  that  purpose 
in  one  of  the  smaller  drawing-rooms.  I  was  engaged, 
(Rosina,  my  maid,  was  just  arranging  my  hair,)  and 
thinking  the  request  might,  after  all,  resolve  itself  into 
a  genteel  petition  for  alms,  (I  was  subject  to  appeals  of 
this  kind,)  I  sent  the  servant  down  to  give  the  man 
some  money,  and  bid  him  go  away.  Presently  he  re- 
turned bearing  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which  the  following 
words  were  traced  in  English,  and  in  a  handwriting  I 
recognised  immediately,  although  I  had  not  seen  it  for 
years : — 

"  Adzema,  I  beg  of  you  to  see  me  for  old  acquaint- 
ance  sake. 

PAUL  REMBRANDT." 

Had  the  pride  which  actuated  me  in  my  marriage 
sustained  me  then,  I  should  have  refused  to  see  him  ; 
but  my  only  thought  was  a  wild  longing  to  look  on 
him  again. 


MY    CONFESSION.  19 

Rosina  hastily  banded  up  my  hair ;  I  slipped  on  the 
dress  I  was  to  wear  for  the  evening,  and  hurried  down 
stairs. 

I  cannot  describe  our  meeting ; — indeed,  I  have  al- 
most forgotten  it,  for  thirty  years  of  sorrow  have  pass- 
ed over  my  head  since  then.  I  only  remember  that  he 
hurriedly  told  me  he  had  come  to  beg  a  night's  shelter 
of  my  husband  ;  that  he  was  a  fugitive,  and,  in  conse- 
quence of  an  offence  against  the  government,  was  flee- 
ing for  his  life.  Ralph  was  away  on  a  journey  of  a 
few  days,  and  having  been  detained,  was  not  at  home 
to  help  me  do  the  honors  of  my  fete.  Notwithstand- 
ing his  absence,  I  assured  Rembrandt  of  a  perfect  wel- 
come to  the  hospitality  and  shelter  of  the  house,  in 
my  own  name,  as  well  as  in  that  of  its  absent  master. 

He  had  greatly  changed  since  I  had  last  seen  him ; 
he  looked  fully  fifteen  years  older.  His  hair  was  almost 
grey,  and  the  expression  of  his  face  much  careworn,. 
Involuntarily  I  asked  myself  if  I  too  had  changed; 
but  my  conscious  matron  pride  gave  me  answer,  that 
my  beauty  was  as  undimmed,  as  radiant  as  ever. 
With  joy  I  hailed  the  welcome  truth ;  for  did  it  not 
prove  to  him  that  his  rejection  of  my  love  had  not  been 
an  unbearable  sorrow  ? 

He  noticed  this  himself,  and  said,  as  he  looked  at  me 
earnestly — ' 

"  Adzema,  how  very,  very  little  you  have  altered." 


20  MY    CONFESSION. 

"And  you,  oh!  how  differently" — I  stopped,  half 
ashamed  of  the  impulsive  words. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  smiling  sadly,  "  I  feel  I  am  not  the 
same  being  I  was  eight  years  ago.  Some  day,  if  you 
will  listen  to  my  melancholy  story,  I  will  tell  you  all. 
You  who  were  so  full  of  sympathy  for  the  unfortunate 
in  by-gone  days,  will  surely  bestow  a  little  on  an  old 
friend  now." 

Tears  rose  to  my  eyes  unbidden.  He  spoke  so  very 
sadly,  that  there  came  before  me  the  wretched  picture 
of  my  lonely  girlhood,  when  I  had  loved  him  hopeless- 
ly, passionately,  and, — in  vain  !  Suddenly  I  started 
up.  Some  fiend,  some  devil  from  hell  itself,  must  have 
possessed  me.  In  burning  words,  whose  meaning  I 
did  not  myself  know  until  they  were  uttered,  I  poured 
forth  to  him  the  tale  of  that  miserable  secret.  Woman- 
ly modesty,  womanly  self-respect  xvas  forgotten.  I 
was  crazed,  I  was  wild ;  I  knew  not  what  my  lips  said. 
I,  so  cold,  so  haughty,  so  scornful  of  all  the  unhallowed 
love  offered  at  the  shrine  of  my  beauty  since  my  mar- 
riage— /,  poor  fool,  blinded  and  reckless,  laid  my  heart 
open,  unsolicited,  to  the  eyes  of  him  who  had  once  de- 
spised it. 

As  I  proceeded,  the  fiery  eagerness  of  my  manner 
increased.  Regardless  of  every  thing,  even  his  amaze- 
ment, on — on  I  went  with  the  rush  of  a  swollen  torrent, 
whose  course  was  already  too  long  impeded.  Yet  I 


MY     CONFESSION.  21 

distinctly  remember,  even  at  this  remote  time,  that  I 
spoke  only  of  a  love  that  had  been,  and  not  of  one  that 
was. 

Oh  !  how  he  looked  at  me  when  I  had  done, — when, 
at  last,  I  stood  there  in  silence,  humiliated  at  my  folly 
and  madness  ; — worse,  my  sin,  for  such  I  deem  it  now. 
How  pityingly  he  looked  at  me,  how  tenderly,  and  yet 
how  wildly!  Love,  surprise  and  fear,  blended  in  his 
pure  eyes, — a  fear  great  and  deep  for  the  preservation 
of  his  strength.  Then,  too  late,  I  became  aware  of  my 
childishness.  Bowing  my  face  in  my  hands,  I  could 
only  weep.  Such  tears  !  blood  would  not  have  so  taken 
the  life  from  my  heart  as  they. 

And  then  he  told  me,  in  words  as  sorrowful  as  they 
were  few,  how  once,  a  long  while  before,  he  had  loved 
me,  but  imagined  he  loved  in  vain  ! 

I  repeated  scornfully  this  word  "imagined"  from 
between  my  clasped  hands.  He  paused,  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  then  said  calmly — 

"  And  yet  not  altogether  imagined,  Adzema,  for 
those  near  and  dear  to  you  told  me  your  affections 
were  already  given  away.  We  have  thus  both  suffer- 
ed alike.  Let  us  forget  and  forgive  all  of  pain  we 
may  unconsciously  have  occasioned  each  other." 

I  took  away  my  hands  and  looked  at  him.  O  good, 
great  man,  how  well  I  recollect  the  horror  with  which 
he  appeared  filled  at  the  confession  he  had  just  spoken. 


22  MYCONFESSION. 

He  seemed  as  though  he  hated  himself  for  it ;  although 
/  had  lost  sight  of  the  delicacy  of  a  wedded  wife,  he 
had  not ; — he  had  respected  it  far  more  than  I  had  re- 
spected it  myself. 

Guests  were  beginning  to  arrive.  I  heard  their  feet 
pass  up  the  broad  stair-case  to  the  dressing-rooms. 
Suddenly  I  became  aware  that  it  was  necessary  I 
should  receive  them,  and  just  then  a  brisk  tap  at  the 
door  gave  warning  that  Rosina  had  come  to  inform 
me  my  duties  as  hostess  were  already  too  long  de- 
ferred. I  ran  to  open  it,  but  instead  of  Rosina,  saw 
the  angry  flushed  countenance  of  Ralph.  He  entered. 
I  understood  so  well  the  jealous  disposition  of  my  hus- 
band, that  instinctively  I  dreaded  the  meeting  of  these 
two  men.  Well  I  might,  for  Ralph  arriving  but  a  few 
moments  before,  had  gone  to  my  room,  and  found 
there,  instead  of  myself,  Paul  Rembrandt's  note  lying 
on  my  dressing-table. 

Knowing  nothing  of  the  circumstances  under  which 
it  was  written,  and  remembering  Rembrandt  only  as 
one  who  had  possessed  my  love,  heated  and  displeased, 
he  had  come  to  seek  me  in  person. 

Rembrandt  advanced  to  meet  him  with  a  somewhat 
embarrassed,  but  warm  greeting — a  warmth  which  I 
knew  his  generous  soul  really  felt.  Ralph  received 
him  haughtily  and  coldly.  This  reception  prepared  me 
too  well  for  his  consequent  inhospitality.  I  do  not 


MYCONFESSION.  23 

feel  myself  capable  of  giving  the  scene  which  followed 
in  detail.  My  memory  fails  me  on  some  points,  and 
on  others  I  will  not  even  permit  myself  to  think,  for 
they  make  my  breast  burn  anew  with  its  old  dislike 
for  him  whom  I  once  vowed  to  love  and  obey.  What 
mockery  of  words ! 

It  is  enough  to  state,  that  Ralph  refused  the  shelter 
of  his  roof  to  his  astonished  countryman,  and  that,  in 
language,  which  any  one  less  excitable  than  Paul 
Rembrandt  would  at  once  have  resented. 

Ralph  was  violently  angry,  and  evidently  thought 
Mr.  Rembrandt's  story  a  ruse  to  hide  the  suspicious 
appearance  of  a  discovered  meeting.  For  once,  my 
presence  of  mind  and  strength  of  purpose  deserted 
me.  I  dared  not  plead  to  my  husband  for  Rembrandt, 
or  assert,  as  I  would  have  done  in  a  calmer  moment, 
my  right  to  extend  to  an  old  friend  the  refuge  he  so 
much  needed. 

Loftily  and  proudly  Rembrandt  left  the  room,  and  it 
was  not  until  I  saw  the  door  close  upon  him,  that  my 
senses  returned.  I  heard  the  echo  of  his  feet  up  the 
graveled  walks  to  the  carnage  way  beyond,  and  I 
heard,  too,  the  rain  pattering  in  torrents  upon  the 
ground.  He  was  gone,  and  in  that  terrible  storm  ! 

Before  morning  he  might  be  in  the  hands  of  his  pur- 
suers ;  I  knew  too  well  the  awful  after  fate  of  all  poli- 
tical offenders  against  the  despotic  government  of 
Italy. 


24  MY     CONFESSION. 

What  could  I — what  should  I  do,  passed  like  light- 
ning through  my  brain.  I  flew,  rather  than  walked,  up 
stairs  to  my  own  apartments.  I  knew  Rosina  to  be  a 
girl  entirely  devoted  to  my  interests, — I  determined 
to  make  use  of  her  services  in  recalling  Rembrandt. 
A  promised  reward  and  a  whispered  caution  had  all 
the  effect  I  could  desire,  and  not  stopping  even  to 
throw  a  hood  over  her  well-shaped  Italian  head,  she 
sprang  down  the  stairs  to  the  back  entrance,  and  was 
soon  lost  to  view  in  the  night  and  rain.  In  twenty 
minutes  of  suspense  she  re-entered  my  dressing-room. 
The  rain  had  by  this  time  abated,  yet  the  poor  child 
was  dripping  wet. 

"Signora,"  slie  exclaimed,  breathless  with  haste, 
"  the  Signer  would  not  return  with  me  as  you  desired  ; 
but  he  bade  me  say,  if  you  have  any  message  to  send 
him,  he  will  await  me  just  without  the  gates." 

There  wras  no  help  for  it !  I  must  save  him  !  I  tried 
to  persuade  myself  that,  for  the  sake  of  by-gone  times, 
it  was  my  duty  to  snatch  him  from  his  impending  fate. 
Pausing  long  enough  to  envelope  myself  in  a  mantle, 
I  started  out  to  seek  him  myself.  Gathering  up  my 
satin  ball-robe,  I  ran  along  the  paths  and  through  the 
gardens  with  fevered  eagerness.  The  stars  were  be- 
ginning to  appear  through  the  dispersing  clouds,  and 
by  their  dim  light  I  found  him  leaning,  with  folded 
arms,  against  the  pillars  of  the  entrance. 


MYCONFESSION.  25 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  surprise,  the  grateful  amaze- 
ment with  which  he  recognized  me.  He  took  my 
cold  hands  in  his,  and  while  he  blessed  me  again  and 
again,  with  mingled  gentleness  and  firmness  bade  me 
go  immediately  back.  In  vain  I  implored  him  to  re- 
turn with  me. 

"  What,"  said  he  proudly,  "  shall  I  take  by  stealth 
the  hospitality  denied  me  openly  ?  You  do  not  know 
me,  Adzema,  if  you  consider  me  capable  of  such  an 
action/' 

Once  more  I  forgot  myself.  My  old  love  came 
gathering  around  my  heart.  I  threw  myself  before 
him  on  the  wet  grass,  and  begged  him,  for  my  sake,  to 
avoid  so  great  and  fearful  a  danger,  as  detection  must 
inevitably  prove. 

"  For  my  sake,  Paul,"  I  cried  wildly,  "  for  the  sake 
of  the  love  I  once  bore,  and  still  bear  you,  yield  these 
false  feelings  of  pride." 

It  was  a  wicked  speech,  reader ;  I  am  well  aware  of 
that ;  but  possibly  the  open  manner  in  which  I  confess 
it,  may  create  excuse  for  me  in  your  eyes.  I  can 
have  no  object  in  writing  this  slight  autobiography  to 
conceal  anything  from  you,  or  make  my  offences 
against  God  or  man  less  palpable  than  they  are. 

By  the  tones  of  his  voice,  when  next  he  spoke, 
rather  than  the  expression  of  his  face,  for  that,  by  the 
the  faint  light,  I  could  scarcely  see,  I  knew  his  resolu- 


26  MYCONFESSION. 

tion  was  staggered.  I  saw  my  advantage,  and  con- 
tinued to  plead,  as  a  drowning  man  might,  for  a  last 
attempt  at  his  rescue ;  he  yielded,  yielded  to  my  will, 
blindly  and  wholly.  Happy  as  I  felt  then,  there 
mingled  with  my  joy  a  sense  of  humiliation,  such  as  I 
never  but  once  afterwards  experienced.  Though  cir- 
cumstances were  extenuating,  and  I  had  done  evil 
that  good  might  come  of  it,  I  still  felt  myself  an  hum- 
bled and  ignoble  .temptress. 

Adjoining  the  villa  was  a  -high  and  pleasantly  slop- 
ing hill.  At  its  base  were  the  remains  of  an  old  tomb 
or  vault,  which,  years  before,  had  been  the  burial 
ground  of  the  first  owners  of  the  mansion.  I  knew  it 
to  be  well  concealed  by  trees  and  shrubbery,  and  hor- 
rible as  the  idea  appeared,  I  determined  to  make  it 
Rembrandt's  hiding-place ;  well  convinced,  should  his 
pursuers  track  him  to  the  villa,  that  it  would  be  the 
last  spot  which  they  would  search,  if  they  even  dis- 
covered its  existence.  I  conducted  him  passively  to 
it ;  with  trembling  hands,  refastened  the  half  worm- 
eaten  door,  and  hastened  back  to  the  house.  I  was 
wrought  up  to  great  nervous  excitement.  How  I 
managed  to  elude  the  prying  eyes  of  the  servants,  on 
my  return,  I  know  not. 

Exhausted  as  I  was,  I  began  a  change  of  toilette, 
and,  with  Rosina's  assistance,  soon  exchanged  my  wet 
and  mud-stained  robe  for  one  fresh  and  dry.  With 


MY     CONFESSION.  27. 

hypocrisy  on  my  face,  and  a  smiling  lie  on  my  lips,  I 
descended  to  my  guests.  Out  of  very  defiance  to 
nature,  I  exerted  myself  to  appear  unconcerned  and 
at  my  ease.  I  saw  Ralph  was  keeping  a  strict  and 
stern  watch  upon  my  movements,  and  for  that  reason, 
1  strove  to  be  apparently  more  gay  and  joyous  than 
usual.  Should  a  dejected  mem  show  him  how  he  had 
triumphed  over  me  ?  No !  my  share  of  woman's 
pride  was  too,  great  for  that.  Never  were  more 
admiring  eyes  bent  on  me ;  never  did  I  so  stoop  to 
conciliate  favor ;  never  was  I  as  merry,  as  careless, 
and  gleeful, — all  with  a  hidden  worm  gnawing  my 
heart-strings.  Gracefully  as  I  possessed  the  power,  I 
enacted  the  part  of  an  affable  hostess,  until,  at  last, 
the  "  wee  sma'  hours"  found  my  husband  and  myself 
alone  in  our  deserted  banquet-rooms.  Coldly,  and 
with  a  mutual  sense  of  estrangement,  we  separated 
for  the  night,  neither  dreaming  what  events  the  next 
day  was  to  bring  forth. 

Excitement  then  gave  way  to  a  feeling  of  intense 
exhaustion.  Still  dressed  in  the  mockery  of  the  even- 
ing, I  flung  myself  on  my  bed,  and  tried  to  rest. 
Sleep  did  not  visit  my  eyes.  What  a  night  was  that ! 
I  seemed  to  live  anew  the  days  of  the  regretted  Past 
— that  fearful  monster,  who  had  buried  in  its  deepest 
tomb,  my  faith  in  happiness  and  my  youth.  Gone 
were  they  both,  never  to  be  mine  again !  My  humble 


28  MY     CONFESSION. 

home  came  before  me,  as  though  its  presence  might  be 
attested  by  the  senses ;  there  arose,  too,  a  sweet  vision 
of  Bianca  and  our  early  years  of  sisterhood.  Many 
scenes  of  my  girlish  days  were  renewed ; — as  I  lay 
there,  hot  and  feverish,  the  woman  was  wholly  lost  in 
recollections  of  the  girl. 

Morning  dawned,  and  with  it  vanished  my  half- 
crazed  visions.  At  the  breakfast  table  Ralph  was 
absent  and  abstracted ;  there  was  a  stiff  coldness  in 
his  attentions  during  the  meal,  that  I  could  not  but  re- 
mark, and  which  proved  to  me,  that  my  offence  (if  it 
were  one)  was  not  to  be  forgiven. 

On  retiring  to  my  dressing-room,  I  immediately 
took  Rosina  to  my  counsel  again.  My  difficulty  now 
was  to  transmit  food  to  Mr.  Rembrandt,  without 
observation.  To  do  so,  seemed  to  my  guilty  con- 
science an  impossibility ;  but  it  must  be  done,  and, 
with  Rosina's  assistance,  it  was  done !  Food,  dry 
raiment,  and  fire-wood,  were  secretly  conveyed  to  the 
old  tomb ;  but  all  attempts  that  I  made  to  visit  it  my- 
self were  vain,  because  Ralph's  stern  eyes  were  ever 
upon  me. 

A  new  excitement,  a  new  subject  for  alarm,  was 
soon  created.  About  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  we 
were  disturbed  by  the  arrival  of  some  half  dozen 
Italian  officials,  who  had  traced  Mr.  Rembrandt  to  our 
villa.  Ralph,  of  course,  gave  them  indignant  permis- 


M¥     CONFESSION.  20 

sion  to  search  the  place  from  roof  to  cellar ;  and,  con- 
sequently, a  thorough  examination  took  place,  thank 
heaven,  '  without  success  !  After  overturning  the 
whole  arrangement,  of  the  house,  they  at  last  de- 
parted ;  and  shortly  after,  in  the  first  dusk  of  the 
evening,  I  found  an  opportunity  to  absent  myself 
unobserved. 

As  I  reached  the  vault,  I  was  startled  by  perceiving 
the  figure  of  a  man  standing  at  the  entrance.  The 
first  moment  of  affright  over,  I  recognized,  in  the  uncer- 
tain light,  my  poor  prisoner  engaged  in  fastening  the 
door.  Seeing  me,  he  turned  and  came  to  meet  me. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Rembrandt,"  I  cried,  "  are  you  crazy  that 
you  thus  risk  your  life  ?  Have  you  not  heard,  even 
here,  something  of  the  tumult  that  has  just  passed  ? 
Do  you  not  know  the  house  has  been  searched  by 
men,  who  will  give  you  over  to  almost  sure  destruc- 
tion if  they  discover  your  hiding-place  ?  Back,  back, 
I  implore  you — back,  as  you  value  your  life!" 

"  I  had  rather,  Adzem-a,"  he  answered,  solemnly,  "  I 
had  rather  a  thousand  times  put  myself  in  their  hands 
voluntarily,  than  act  again,  for  a  single  hour,  the  un- 
just part  which,  to-day,  I  have  acted  against  you" 
He  took  my  hand  as  he  spoke,  drew  me  within  the 
gray  old  tomb,  and  closed  the  door,  which  was  half 
unhung,  from  its  rusty  hinges. 

What  a  scene  was  that  within !     In  the  middle  of 


30  MYCONFESSION. 

the  stone  floor  burned  a  flickering  fire,  that  lit  up,  at 
fitful  intervals,  this  dismal  abode  of  death  and  corrup- 
tion. The  ghastly  light,  playing  over  the  damp  and 
mildewed  walls,  frightened  me  in  spite  of  myself,  and 
made  the  drops  of  moisture  upon  them  glitter  like  so 
many  fiery  eyes.  In  one  corner  lay  the  remains  of 
what  I  suppose  must  once  have  been  human  bones, 
looking  all  the  more  hideous  by  the  red  light.  What- 
ever rny  foot  touched,  as  Rembrandt  led  me  towards 
the  fire,  made  me  recoil  with  the  idea  that  it  had  once 
been  animate  with  human  breath.  Notwithstanding 
my  fear,  my  lips  were  not  idle.  I  begged  him  to  wait 
but  a  little  while,  and  give  his  pursuers  time  to  get 
somewhat  out  of  his  way.  My  words  were  wasted 
and  useless.  He  told  me  that  it  was  impossible  to  re- 
main there  longer,  "yes,"  said  he,  "even  if  certain 
death  were  the  consequence.  I  despise  myself  for 
having  consented  to  come  here  at  all,  and  have  waited 
impatiently  for  night  and  darkness  to  cover  my  flight. 
Words,  my  dearest  friend,  cannot  express  my  thanks 
to  you,  but  a  sense  of  right  compels  me  to  go ;  my 
lingering  here,  in  this  doubtful  and  secret  way,  un- 
known to  your  husband,  compromises  your  dignity, 
and  exposes  you  to  the  misconstructions  to  which  a 
discovery  of  my  retreat  would  most  certainly  give 
rise." 

Scarcely  had  the  words  left  his  lips,  when  the  door 


M\      CONFESSION.  31 

was  suddenly  thrust  aside  with  the  fury  of  one  in  the 
fiercest  and  hottest  of  wraths,  and,  quivering  with  ex- 
citement, my  husband  strode  into  the  tomb. 

"  So,"  cried  he,  "  most  unworthy  of  women,  this  is 
the  way  you  guard  the  honor  of  your  husband !  This 
is  the  way  you  obey  him  to  whom  you  have  sworn 
obedience — shameless,  unfaithful  wife  \" 

He  grasped  me  by  the  arm  as  he  spoke,  and  flung 
me  violently  against  the  side  of  the  vault ;  then  con- 
fronting Rembrandt,  he  poured  out  a  torrent  of  invec- 
tive, and  denounced  him  by  the  vilest  names  that  one 
of  God's  creatures  ever  cast  upon  another.  For  some 
moments,  the  violence  of  the  shock  prevented  utter- 
ance. When  physical  anguish  permitted  me  to  speak, 
I  clung  to  my  husband,  and  besought  him  to  hear  me. 

Once  again  he  thrust  me  passionately  away ;  and  it 
was  the  last  time  his  hand  ever  touched  mine.  Had  I 
known  that  then,  I  might,  perhaps,  have  quelled  the 
demon  which  that  cruel  blow  made  to  rise  up  withinme. 

I  must  have  fainted  from  the  effects  of  my  fright 
and  pain,  because  I  know  nothing  more  of  this  terrible 
scene.  When  I  awoke  to  consciousness,  I  was  in  my 
own  room,  Itosina  bending  anxiously  over  me.  Look- 
ing into  her  kind  Italian  eyes,  as  they  gleamed  down 
pityingly  in  mine,  I  bade  her  tell  me  what  had 
happened,  and  how  I  came  there.  She  only  answered 
with  sighs  and  tears.  At  last  she  burst  forth : — 


32  MY     CONFESSION. 

"  O  Signora,  dearest  Signora,  the  Signer  is  very,  very 
ill.  The  Padre  is  here  to  confess  him,  and  the  avvo- 
cato  to  draw  the  will.  O  Signora,  Signora,  the  good 
Virgin  look  down  on  you  both !" 

Gradually  I  gathered,  from  the  confused  and  fright- 
ened exclamations  of  the  girl,  that  Ralph  had  broken 
a  blood-vessel,  and  was  not  expected  to  survive  the 
night.  I  recall  to  mind,  most  vividly,  the  effect  these 
tidings  had  upon  my  frame  in  its  weakened  and 
enfeebled  state.  I  neither  wept  nor  spoke.  My  sen- 
sations were  those  of  one  suddenly  stunned.  For 
hours  I  lay  as  in  an  incomprehensible  dream.  I  could 
not  command  my  thoughts  sufficiently  to  realize  in 
the  least  degree  the  threatened  calamity. 

I  did  not  awake  from  my  trance  till  Rosina,  in  great 
dismay,  summoned  to  my  aid  the  physician  who  was 
attending  my  poor  husband,  and  entreated  him,  with 
clasped  hands  and  streaming  eyes,  to  save  me  per 
l-amore  di  Dio.  A  refreshing  powder  soon  had  a  bene- 
ficial effect  on  my  system.  My  tardy  senses  were 
opened  to  the  truth. 

They  would  not  admit  me  to  my  husband's  cham- 
ber, when  I  tried  to  go  to  him.  At  the  close  of  the 
next  day,  however,  the  venerable  Padre  came  to  con- 
duct me  to  him. 

"  Walk  and  speak  gently,  daughter,"  he  whispered,  as 
I  entered  the  room;  "we  know  not  on  how  frail  a 
thread  his  life  may  depend." 


MY     CONFESSION.  33 

I  went  to  him  with  a  softened  and  tender  heart ; 
but  I  soon  saw  that  my  visit  was  not  intended  to  be 
one  of  explanations  or  pardon. 

As  I  approached  the  bed  on  which  my  husband  re- 
clined, supported  in  half  sitting  posture,  he  motioned 
me,  with  white  and  bloodless  hand,  to  a  chair,  and 
slightly  bowed  his  head,  as  a  signal  to  the  avvocato  who 
stood  near  him. 

Astonished  at  the  sight  of  so  many  witnesses  of  the 
interview,  (his  nurse  and  doctor  were  also  in  attend- 
ance,) I  sank,  faint  with  my  own  illness,  to  the  seat  de- 
signated. 

He  was  changed — O,  how  changed  !  His  face  was  as 
white  as  the  pillows  on  which  it  lay ;  his  eyes,  darker 
than  I  had  ever  seen  them,  were  deeply  sunken,  and 
glowed  with  unearthly  brilliancy.  Every  few  mo- 
ments that  transparent  hand  carried  a  handkerchief  to 
his  lips,  and  brought  it  away  with  a  fatal  spot  of  deli- 
cate pink  on  its  white  folds. 

For  a  few  moments  silence  reigned  in  the  room, 
unbroken,  save  by  the  rustling  of  the.  lawyer's  papers, 
as  he  spread  them  out  on  a  little  stand  at  the  side  of 
the  sick  man's  bed. 

When  all  was  ready,  at  a  sign  from  Ralph,  the  av- 
vocato turned  towards  me,  and  said,  in  a  professional 
manner  and  tone — 

"  I  am  commissioned  by  your  husband,  Signora,  to 
2 


34  MY     CONFESSION. 

acquaint  you  with  the  contents  of  his  will,  which  I 
have  this  day  drawn  up.  The  conditions  attached  to 
it  are  somewhat  unusual,  and  it  is  for  the  purpose  of 
ascertaining  whether  you  are  willing  to  comply  with 
them,  that  I  now  read  it  aloud  in  your  presence  before 
it  is  signed  by  witnesses.  Such  is  the  express  desire 
of  your  husband."  The  man  spoke  without  any  of  the 
feeling  natural  to  the  circumstances  ;  but  it  was  not 
that  which  enchained  me  motionless  to  my  seat.  Pre- 
sentiments, vast  and  shadowy,  were  growing  out  of  this 
strange  scene,  and  fastening  on  me.  The  will  was 
read.  I  scarcely  heard  it, — but  one  single  sentence 
entered  my  brain — 

"  I  give  and  bequeath  to  my  wife,  Adzema,  my  es- 
tates, &c.,  &c.,  on  condition  that  she  never  marry 
again, — otherwise  I  leave  her  nothing  more  than  the 
law  insists." 

The  conflicting  emotions  that  filled  my  heart  can 
better  be  imagined  than  described.  My  recollections 
of  them  now  are  like  those  of  some  frightful  and  op- 
pressive dream.  I  knew,  without  seeing,  that  Ralph 
was  watching  my  slightest  movements  and  gesture, 
and  I  fell,  too,  that  his  glance  was  both  stern  and  cold, 
even  in  its  intensity.  Presently  the  lawyer  ceased 
reading  ;  there  was  a  pause ; — Ralph  seemed  to  wait 
for,  and  expect  my  answer. 

I  arose  from  my  seat.     For  a  moment  I  did  not 


MY     CONFESSION.  35 

speak ;  I  could  not.  I  tried  to  tell  him,  in  fiery  words, 
of  my  utter  regardlessness  of  all  he  might  do,  but  they 
came  not ;  and  I  stood  there  before  him,  sick  and  be- 
wildered. Very  soon  my  strength  returned.  The 
restrained  passions,  the  agonies  of  years,  burst  forth 
from  the  poor  breast  that  could  no  longer  contain 
them. 

Fiercely  I  told  him  that  I  had  not  only  never  loved, 
but  at  that  moment  I  hated  him.  Unmindful  of  the 
looks  of  mingled  horror  and  compassion  with*which 
the  attendants  on  my  husband's  death-bed  eyed  me,  I 
proceeded,  loudly  and  passionately : — 

"  Away  with  your  hateful  bribes,"  I  cried.  "  I  sold 
myself  for  your  money  once,  but,  thank  heaven,  I  will 
not  be  bought  or  sold  again,  for  the  selfishness  either 
of  life  or  death !" 

He  shuddered,  and  turned  even  paler  than  before. 
I  saw  it.  I  rejoiced  in  it.  A  thrill  of  revengeful  tri- 
umph went  through  my  whole  frame.  I  cannot  tell 
what  bitter  things  I  said  after  this.  When,  outraged 
by  my  words,  they  tried  to  take  me  from  the  room,  I 
cried  out,  with,  all  my  voice  : — 

"  Let  me  alone !  I  have  borne  with  him  during  the 
best  and  freshest  part  of  my  hie.  I  have  never  com- 
plained or  uttered  aught  against  him ;  let  him  bear  with 
me  now.  I  must,  I  will  speak."  I  turned  towards 


36  MY     CONFESSION. 

him  again,  but  they  bore  me  away.  /  neve?-  saw  him 
more. 

During  the  long  and  sleepless  night  that  followed,  I 
repented  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  my  savage  words  to  a 
dying  man.  I  shrank  in  horror  from  the  idea  of  that 
being  our  last  meeting  on  earth.  Humbled  to  the  dust, 
meekly  and  penitently,  in  the  darkness  of  night,  I  crept 
down  to  his  room,  determined  to  speak  with  him  once 
more — to  ask  him  to  forgive  the  violence  into  which  I 
had  been  hurried.  They  refused  me  admittance,  just- 
ly deeming  that  I  was  no  fit  visitant  for  a  death-cham- 
ber. I  begged,  prayed  and  entreated.  I  promised  to 
restrain  myself;  to  say  nothing  ;  to  give  up  my  hopes 
of  hearing  him  speak  his  earthly  pardon,  if  they  would 
but  let  me  see  him.  They  denied  me  ;  saying  he  was 
not  to  be  excited  farther, — that  he  was  then  dying.  I 
humbled  myself  as  I  had  never  been  humbled,  save  to 
my  Creator,  but  gently  they  rejected  my  petition,  and 
then  I  knew  it  was  because  he  had  said  so,  and  that  he 
dreaded  to  see  me  again. 

I  suffered  tortures  during  the  rest  of  that  awful 
night.  I  felt  I  deserved  it  all ;  that  much  as  I  had 
patiently  endured  throughout  his  life,  I  had,  by  final 
passion,  forfeited  all  right  to  be  with  him  when  he 
died.  And  so  it  was.  His  eyes  were  closed  by  other 
hands  than  mine. 


MY     CONFESSION.  37 

I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  the  unnatural  stillness 
tliat  for  a  long  while  afterwards  reigned  in  the  house, 
and  of  the  sad  faces  of  the  servants,  as  they  moved  to 
and  fro  with  slow  and  noiseless  steps.  I  think  my 
senses  must  again  have  been  numbed — all  this  seemed 
so  unlike  reality  to  me  at  the  time. 

As  months  passed  on,  Italy  grew  hateful  to  me.  It 
awoke  too  many  unpleasant  reflections,  and  I  returned 
to  America.  My  father  and  mother  were  dead.  With 
my  two  boys  I  took  up  my  residence  in  a  pretty  cot- 
tage near  Tarrytown,  on  the  Hudson  river.  There, 
on  the  income  which  the  law  allowed  me  from  my 
husband's  property,  I  lived  secluded  and  alone,  brood- 
ing over  the  past,  and  hoping  happiness  and  domestic 
love  for  the  future. 


AT  length  I  married  again.  I  married  him  with 
whom  my  heart  had  always  been,  and  with  whom  it 
is  now,  although  he,  too,  is  in  his  grave.  We  were 
very  happy  together  in  those  few  years.  Happiness 
is  too  tame  a  word  for  such  overflowing  bliss  ! 

Is  there  not  more  than  happiness  in  the  union  of 
perfect  love  and  tastes,  artistic  and  perfect  in  them- 
selves ? 

We  were  more,  O,  far  more  than  merely  happy ; 
and  when  he  died,  great  God !  I  was  unutterably  more 


38  MYCONFESSION. 

than  unhappy  !  I  never  desired  to  see  the  light  again  ; 
I  longed  to  die.  More  than  once  was  I  tempted  to  cast 
back,  myself,  the  gift  of  life  to  my  Creator.  God  pity 
me!  What  repose  would  have  been  sweeter  to  me 
than  that  of  death,  if  I  but  lay  across  the  sods  that 
cover  his  breast  ?  Did  I  not  have  gentler  thoughts 
when,  often,  in  those  nights  long  with  tears,  my  cheek 
rested  on  that  wet  grass  ?  Did  not  my  heart  beat 
with  more  resignation  when  so  near  you,  Paul  ?  God 
pity  me,  God  pity  me  !  I  am  alone  now. 


IT  was  a  sweet  and  quiet  day  in  June.  Earth,  sky 
and  river  shone  as  bright  as  when  they  first  gleamed 
out  of  chaos.  I  stood  at  the  gate  of  our  peaceful 
country  home  to  bid  my  husband  God-speed  on  his 
journey.  My  dark-eyed,  rosy  little  girl — his  child — 
clung  shyly  around  my  knees,  when  her  step-brothers 
came  to  give  their  parting  kiss,  laughing  and  weeping 
by  turns  as  she  saw  them  clamber  into  the  tiny  chariot. 
They  were  going  back  to  school  after  the  spring  holi- 
days, and  Paul,  kind,  generous  Paul,  ever  more  mind- 
ful of  others'  pleasure  than  his  own,  was  going  to  drive 
them  there  in  the  pony  carriage,  as  an  agreeable  varie- 
ty from  the  usual  mode  in  which  they  travelled  to  and 
fro  at  each  semi-yearly  vacation.  I  watched  the 


MX*     CONFESSION.  39 

chariot  till  the  brisk  ponies  bore  it  out  of  the  range  of 
vision.  And  then  I  sat  down  on  the  fresh  spring 
grass,  and  wove  a  crown  of  leaves  for  the  hair  of  my 
bright  darling,  who  would  scarcely  stand  still  for  pretty 
childish  tricks,  while  I  wreathed  it  around  her  fair 
head.  As  I  looked  at  her,  half  dancing  before  my 
pleased  eyes,  I  thought  my  cup  of  bliss  was  surely 
full.  And  before  night  the  tidings  came  that  dashed 
it  forever  from  my  thirsting  lips.  A  bridge,  about 
four  miles  distant,  that  spanned  an  inlet  from  the  river, 
had  given  away  with  the  chariot  upon  it ;  and  the 
exulting  waters  devoured  those  three  lives — one  of 
them  dearer  to  me  than  my  own ! 


THERE,  by  the  side  of  that  dead  man,  whom  alone  of 
all  the  whole  world  I  had  ever  really  loved,  loved  with 
all  the  powers  of  my  being,  I  made  a  solemn  vow.  A 
fierce  determination  took  possession  of  rny  soul.  I 
vowed  that  my  child  should  never  feel  aught  of  love 
for  either  God  or  man  ;  never  know  of  the  existence  of 
that  Deity  who  had,  as  I  believed,  forsaken  me;  and  in 
the  uncertainties  of  an  earthly  affection,  I  also  prom- 
ised myself  that  her  happiness  should  never  become  in- 
volved. Alas  !  what  was  I  doing,  but  shutting  her  out 
from  the  two  glories  of  time  and  eternity ! 


40  MY     CONFESSION. 

My  mind  was  filled  with  a  multitude  of  emotions. 
I  had  suffered  so  much,  so  deeply,  myself — my  affec- 
tions had  been  so  bruised,  my  whole  life  so  miserable — 
that,  in  my  grief,  I  rebelled  against  the  hand  that  smote 
me  ; — I  denied  my  Lord  ! 

"  If  there  were  a  God  and^  Creator,"  I  exclaimed,  in 
the  bitterness  of  my  wrath,  "  would  he  thus  afflict  a 
poor  creature,  who  has  worshipped  him  with  a  life- 
long devotion — who  has  placed  in  him  her  all  of  hope 
and  confidence ;  would  He,  who  is  represented  as 
great,  good  and  holy,  visit  his  humble  disciple  with 
agonies  which  the  fiend  himself  might  bestow  upon  his 
angels  ?  No !  there  is  NO  God  and  no  Creator  !  I 
DENY  his  existence  !  A  GOD  would  not  send  such  undy- 
ing anguish  to  one  who  ever  knelt  to  him  in  prayer." 

Many  years  of  infidel  hopelessness  passed,  in  grief 
that  refused  to  be  comforted.  The  smile  of  my  Crea- 
tor was  never  mine, — His  presence  was  never  near  me. 
In  hard,  cold  unbelief,  my  life  went  down  to  the  past, 
while  the  future  loomed  up  amid  a  darkness  deeper 
than  that  of  night. 

I  now  come  to  a  part  of  my  life  to  which  I  revert 
with  agony  of  spirit.  I  would  give  all  my  hopes  of 
heaven,  if  I  could  wipe  out  its  sins.  I  will  write  of  it 
briefly  ; — my  pen  and  brain  are  alike  wearied. 

At  my  dear  husband's  death,  I  had  sworn  to  guard 
my  child  from  the  rocks  on  which  her  poor  mother's 


MYCONFESSION.  41 

hopes  had  been  wrecked.  I  had  vowed  that  she  should 
live  ignorant  of  the  existence  of  her  God,  and  free  from 
the  influence  of  mortal  passion. 

To  accomplish  my  purpose,  I  purchased  a  quiet 
tract  of  country  in  a  part  of  western  Ohio,  which  was 
then  almost  removed  from  the  knowledge  of  men. 
There,  I  thought  I  might,  myself,  live  and  die  in  peace, 
undisturbed  and  in  perfect  seclusion,  and  my  child,  my 
tender-hearted  Azalie  grow  up  to  become  a  happier  and 
purer  minded  woman  than  those  bred  in  great  cities. 
My  vow  !  it,  too,  was  there,  and  only  there  to  be  ful- 
filled ! 

It  was  a  lovely  spot,  —  wild  as  nature  made  it,  it 
pleased  me  with  its  rugged  beauty.  Green  with  ven- 
erable trees,  lofty  mountains  rose  on  either  side  of  it, 
hiding  all  but  heaven  from  the  eye. 

No  road  or  footpath  led  to  the  little  log-dwelling 
that  I  caused  to  be  erected.  It  was  reached  with 
much  difficulty,  and  being  situated  miles  away  from 
other  habitations,  it  was  as  secluded  as  if  on  an  island 
in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 

Along  the  mountain's  sides  I  had  some  fields  clear- 


ed for  cultivation.  While  I  chose  them  with  a 
to  a  good  sun  exposure,  I  also  took  pains  to  select 
them  in  a  hollow,  that  concealed  their  existence.  I 
lived  there,  alone,  for  many  years.  I  retained  but  one 
servant,  an  aged  man  who  had  grown  up  in  the  ser- 

2* 


42  M  y     (,'  O  N  F  E  S  S  I  O  N  . 

vice  of  my  husband's  family,  and  who  was  devotedly 
attached  to  me  and  my  daughter.  He  was  the  only 
partaker  of  my  retirement ;  my  solitude  was  enliven- 
ed by  no  other  companion.  Hundreds  of  miles  away 
from  those  who  knew  me,  my  child,  my  Azalie,  was 
my  all.  Every  day  strengthened  my  love  for  her;  she 
became  my  idol,  my  religion,  my  God  ! 

For  her  sake,  all  the  toil  and  drudgery  of  that  singu- 
lar, life  I  cheerfully  endured.  With  my  own  hands  I 
aided  to  cultivate  the  ground ;  with  the  once  delicate 
members  which,  sparkling  with  jewels,  princes,  in 
olden  days,  had  kissed,  I  sowed  and  reaped,  and  gath- 
ered in  abundant  harvests.  Unwearied,  I  labored 
early  and  late,  for  on  my  exertions,  principally,  de- 
pended our  daily  bread ;  Martin,  dear  old  man,  being 
too  old  and  feeble  for  an  excessively  active  life.  This 
was  of  little  moment,  as  I  was  prepared  for  all  trials, 
all  labors,  in  the  accomplishment  of  my  purpose.  I 
doubt  if  I  should  have  permitted 'even  that  venerable 
and  time-proved  domestic  to  share  my  exile,  were  I 
not  continually  tormented  with  the  fear  of  suddenly 
dying  in  that  wood-solitude,  and  leaving  my  child  to 
perish  of  hunger,  far  removed  from  human  aid. 

I  do  not  know,  though,  how  I  could  have  refused 
his  moving  prayer,  to  remain  in  my  service  till  he 
died.  "  It  will  not  be  long,  dear  Mrs.  Rembrandt,"  he 
,  beseechingly — "  I  am  very  old. ;  you  will  soon 


MYCONFESSION.  43 

cease  to  be  troubled  with  me.  I  was  born  in  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Rembrandts,  and,  Lord  willing,  I  shpuld 
like  to  die  in  it.  My  kin  are  all  dead ;  I  have  not 
another  friend  in  the  world  but  you !"  Was  it  a  won- 
der he  remained  with  me  ? 

How  well  I  remember  the  fair,  peaceful  summer  day 
when  he  made  me  this  humble  petition.  I  had  been 
paying  the  other  servants  their  wages,  and  giving 
them  their  dismissals.  It  was  just  previous  to  my  re- 
moval to  the  West.  Old  Martin  came  slowly  up  the 
steps  to  the  long  shady  piazza  on  which  I  sat,  and  as 
he  fumbled  with  his  rustic  straw  hat,  spoke  to  me 
those  memorable  words.  I  shall  never  forget  them. 
They  touched  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  As  the  wind 
tossed  back  his  long,  white  locks  from  his  wrinkled 
forehead,  I  said  to  him,  "Go,  Martin,  and  be  happy; 
you  shall  remain  with  the  last,  poor  remnant  of  the 
noble  family  in  which  you  were  reared." 

Without  explaining  my  reasons  for  removing  to  that 
distant  Western  home,  I  made  him  promise  never  to 
mention,  in  Azalie's  presence,  the  names  of  God  or 
heaven ;  and,  at  the  risk  of  quitting  me  forever,  he 
did  so  promise,  although  I  could  see  it  sorely  troubled 
his  good  old  heart.  In  case  of  my  death,  he  also  pror 
mised  to  take  my  child  immediately  to  her  aunt 
Bianca,  who  had  given  me  a  solemn  vow,  when  I 
visited  her  for  the  last  time,  previous  to  my  going; 


44  MY     CONFESSION. 

away,  that  if  Azalie  ever  became  an  orphan,  she 
wojjld  take  the  guardianship  of  her,  her  fortune,  and 
of  poor  old  Martin  also.  But  I  hoped  to  live  for  many 
a  year,  and  mould  the  heart  of  my  daughter,  as  I  be- 
lieved, would  fit  her  best  for  her  life-battle  with  the 
world.  Fervently  did  I  desire  that  my  task  might  not 
be  interrupted — that  I  might  live  till  my  undertaking 
was  completed ;  then,  I  thought,  she  could  go  out  and 
mingle  with  her  fellow-beings  in  safety,  after  I  had 
hardened  her  heart  to  God  and  man  ! 

Four  times  a  year  I  made  a  journey  to  the  nearest 
settlement,  which  was  situated  about  thirty-five  miles 
farther  South.  The  only  animal  I  employed  on  my 
miniature  farm,  was  the  horse  of  which  I  made  use  on 
these  occasions.  Martin  was  not  able  to  bear  the 
fatigue  of  the  long  ride,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  pre- 
ferred to  go  myself,  assured  that  I  could  more  easily 
baffle  curiosity  than  he.  I  usually  returned  well-load- 
ed after  these  excursions,  for  they  were  the  only 
opportunities  I  possessed  of  providing  my  little  family 
with  suitable  clothing  for  the  different  seasons,  and  of 
procuring  those  necessaries  and  luxuries  which  are  not 
the  produce  of  an  American  farm.  At  these  periods, 
also,  I  posted  and  received  letters,  welcome  enliveners 
of  my  solitude.  So  devious  and  rough  were  the  roads 
that  led  to  this  settlement,  independently  of  the  diffi- 
culty I  found  in  getting  from  our  cabin  to  the  road 


MY     CONFESSION.  45 

itself,  that  many  days  of  weariness  invariably  succeed- 
ed the  journey.  Once  I  was  overtaken  by  a  storm, 
and,  having  lost  my  way,  wandered  about  for  twelve 
dreary  hours,  until  both  my  own  courage  and  my 
patient  steed's,  gave  way.  Had  not  these  visits  been 
absolutely  necessary,  I  scarcely  think  I  should  ever 
have  ventured  within  sight  of  humanity.  But  we 
could  not  live  quite  like  savages,  nor  could  I  give  up 
the  luxury  of  hearing  occasionally  from  Bianca,  and 
some  few  other  friends,  who  took  sufficient  interest  in 
my  fate  to  write  to  me. 

Thus,  I  existed  for  long,  long  years;  I  scarcely 
know  how  many,  for,  in  my  strange  and  not  unconge- 
nial pursuits,  I  lost  regard  for  the  reckonings  of  time. 

My  daughter  grew  very  beautiful.  It  filled  me  with 
mad  disappointment  to  see  it.  I  had  longed  for  her  to 
become  a  plain  and  unattractive  woman,  that  she 
might  thus  the  better  repel  the  attacks  of  that  which  I 
then  deemed  woman's  greatest  enemy — Love.  She 
grew  very  beautiful.  Her  large,  wondering  eyes  were 
of  the  brightest  and  most  defiant  hazel ;  her  features 
were  tenderly,  not  coldly  classical ;  and  her  black  hair, 
and  white,  open  forehead,  looked  like  an  abrupt  con- 
trast of  shadow  and  sunshine. 

I  educated  her  myself.  Who  else  was  there  in  that 
wilderness  to  whom  to  entrust  her  instruction,  and  to 
whom  would  I  have  entrusted  it  ?  By  degrees,  I 


40  MYCONFESSION. 

taught  her  all  I  knew — that,  alas !  was  not  much — a 
correct  knowledge  of  the  English  and  Italian  lan- 
guages forming  the  greatest  features  of  her  educa- 
tion. 

For  her  reading,  I  took  the  utmost  pains  to  give  her 
only  such  books  as  would  afford  her  harmless  pleasure, 
and  yet  contain  no  reference  to  religion.  Travels, 
and  quiet  domestic  stories,  were  all  I  placed  in  her 
hands.  Here,  let  me  distinctly  state,  that  I  had  not 
desired,  at  any  period  of  her  life,  to  inspire  her  with 
a  disgust  for  society,  nor  a  hatred  of  her  fellow- 
creatures.  Such  a  feeling  I  had  never  cultivated 
myself,  nor  had  it  been  any  part  of  my  object  in  her 
seclusion. 

It  was  wondrous  what  a  fondness  I  acquired  for  this 
desolate  existence.  I  was  contented  and  almost 
happy ;  as  happy  as  I  could  be  after  the  death  of  one 
I  loved  as  much  as  my  dear  husband.  I  grew  stronger 
and  healthier  than  I  remember  having  been  before  or 
since.  By  constant  labor  in  the  open  air,  my  hands 
lost  their  delicacy,  and  my  person  its  fragile  appear- 
ance ;  but  I  was  too  earnest,  too  energetic  in  my  pur- 
pose, to  care  if  all  outward  traces  of  the  woman  were 
lost  in  the  savage.  I  was  fast  becoming  one — a  sav- 
age in  soul  as  well  as  body.  My  conscience  could  not 
become  entirely  lulled  as  to  the  course  I  was  pursuing. 
Although  I  did  not  believe  in  the  existence  of  a  Deity, 


MYUONFESSION.  47 

and  wantonly  allowed  one  of  heaven's  holiest  spirits 
to  live  unconscious  of  its  Creator,  I  could  not  stifle 
the  occasional  remorse  that  gave  me  warning  of  my 
sin.  Did  I  yield  to  it  ?  No !  '  I  was  not  easily  to  be 
turned  aside  from  my  aim. 

Azalie  was  an  uncommonly  thoughtful  child  for  her 
years.  Her  desire  for  knowledge  was  great ;  so  much 
so,  that  I  often  taxed  my  powers  severely,  in  order  to 
gratify  her  natural  curiosity,  without  revealing  more 
than  I  desired  or  believed.  Like  myself,  she  was  of 
an  imaginative  temperament. 

It  became  remarkable,  sometimes,  how  near  she 
frequently  came  in  her  search  for  information,  to  the 
very  subjects  which,  of  all  others,  I  wished  to  avoid. 
One  day  we  were  walking  homeward,  from  a  long 
ramble  in  the  majestic  old  forests  that  surrounded  my 
little  farm  in  all  their  undefiled  beauty.  As  wre  neared 
home,  the  west  grew  brilliant  with  sunset;  every- 
thing, as  far  as  eye  could  reach,  looked,  in  the  faint 
dimness  of  the  softened  light,  as  if  gifted  with  a  fresh 
loveliness. 

Coming  to  an  opening  in  the  wood,  the  child  ap- 
peared struck  with  the  chastened  magnificence  of  the 
scene,  and  paused  several  times  to  look  around  her 
and  comprehend  its  subdued  splendor.  A  new 
thought  striking  her,  suddenly,  she  turned  quickly  to- 
wards me,  and  exclaimed  : 


48  M  Y     C  O  N  F  R  S  B  I  O  N 

"  How  did  the  world  get  so  beautiful  as  this,  mother  ? 
What  makes  the  sun  gleam  every  night  on  the  trees 
in- this  way?  O,  look  at  that  great  maple,  see  it 
shine  !  I  wonder  what  made  the  sun  to  shine  the 
first,  the  very  first  time  on  the  world !" 

I  tried  to  satisfy  her  curiosity,  by  telling  her  wrhat  I 
had  forced  myself  to  believe  of  the  self-production  of 
the  earth ;  but  she  was  not  at  all  content  with  my  ex- 
planations, and  walked  along  at  my  side,  half  murmur- 
ing to  herself  the  words,  "  I  wonder  who  makes  the 
sun  to  shine !" 

Instinct  had  already  taught  her  that  there  must  be 
some  high  source  whence  everything  that  was  won- 
drous and  beautiful  in  nature  derived  its  wonder  and 
beauty.  She  seemed,  thenceforth,  to  feel  that  there 
had  been  a  creation  of  the  world  by  some  Almighty, 
invisible,  but  glorious  Being. 

Long  after  that  summer  day's  ramble,  I  was  able  to 
trace  the  workings  of  her  young  mind,  by  the  imagin- 
ative conjectures  which  frequently  broke  out  in  won- 
dering utterance. 

The  wildest  Indian  that  roamed  our  shores  of  old, 
came  into  life  with  a  like  instinct.  It  is  as  natural  to 
humanity  as  the  power  of  speech ;  only  death  can 
destroy  it.  Historians  record  it  as  a  startling  fact, 
and  travellers  write  in  amazement,  of  its  existence 
among  the  most  remote  and  barbarous  of  unknown 
nations. 


MYCONFESSION.  49 

Think  of  this,  and  ponder  well  on  it,  oh  !  ye  who 
deny  Him  who  called  the  earth  out  of  chaos,  and  gave 
its  rich  inheritance  of  human  life  ! 


DAYS  glided  past ;  months  and  years  vanished. 
Time  told  me  I  was  growing  old,  and  I  felt  the  truth. 
The  cares  and  sorrows  I  had  endured  all  my  life  now 
began  to  manifest  their  effects  outwardly.  My  beauty 
was  not  only  faded,  but  almost  gone  from  me.  Every 
week  added  to  the  grey  of  my  head  and  the  deep  fur- 
rowed lines  of  my  face.  I  can  scarcely  express  how 
much  this  gradual  change  affected  me.  I  had  so  long 
felt  a  triumph  in  my  physical  superiority  over  other 
women,  that  it  caused  me  more  than  humiliation  to 
see  it  thus  pass  away  forever.  In  the  time  of  my 
youth  and  poverty  I  had  defied  wealth,  dominion,  and 
luxury,  through  my  beauty,  and  by  it  I  had  risen  above 
my  obscure  position.  Though  but  the  simple  dower 
of  nature,  through  its  means  I  had  eclipsed  those  higher 
born  than  myself,  and  won  riches,  power  and  love. 
All  the  pride  of  my  nature  was  based  upon  the  con- 
sciousness of  my  beauty — a  pride 'which  had  none  of 
the  attributes  of  vanity,  however — but  such  a  pride  as, 
in  the  days  when  I  believed  in  God,  had  caused  me  to 
bless  Him  for  it  in  my  nightly  prayers.  I  felt  that  the 


50  MY     CONFESSION. 

angels  in  heaven  were  all  beautiful,  and  it  was  a  balm 
of  consolation  to  think  that  I  was  like  them  in  some- 
thing. 

When  this  beauty  began  to  fade,  great,  deep  and 
unbounded  was  my  grief.  There  still  hangs  at  the 
side  of  my  dressing-glass  the  same  delicately  executed 
miniature,  representing  me  in  the  bloom  of  my  youth, 
which  long  ago  I  placed  there  as  a  check  on  my  re- 
pining, that  it  might  show,  day  by  day,  the  stern  and 
increasing  contrast  between  what  I  was,  and  what  I 
had  been. 

Thus  I  accustomed  myself  to  age  and  wrinkles.  It 
was  a  victory  worth  double  all  it  cost ! 


ONE  evening  in  the  early  Spring,  (my  sweet  child- 
daughter  was  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  old  at  the 
time,)  as  we  were  about  retiring  for  the  night,  there 
arose  a  sudden  and  violent  storm,  that  rocked  the 
cabin  to  its  foundation. 

The  rain  descended  like  one  unbroken  sheet  of 
water,  and  in  the  tempest  of  winds  we  could  hear,  with- 
out, the  crashing  of  the  old  forest  trees,  as  they  fell 
uprooted  to  the  ground. 

Involuntary  thoughts  of  death  came  over  my  infidel 
mind,  yet  I  tried  to  hide  my  alarm  for  the  sake  of  my 


MY     CONFESSION.  51 

poor  frightened  Azalie,  who  clung  to  me  as  though  I 
possessed  the  power  of  protecting  her  from  the  warring 
elements.  Occasionally,  the  shriekings  and  howlings 
of  overtaken  animals  in  drowning  agonies  smote  pain- 
fully on  the  ear ;  but  above  everything,  I  heard  the  wild 
dash  of  those  mighty  waters,  and  my  guilty  soul  could 
think  of  naught  but  them.  Good  God  !  they  were  ac- 
cumulating,— they  were  rising, — I  saw  it,  by  the  stream 
beginning  to  flow  under  the  doors,  slowly  yet  resist- 
lessly  !  I  was  nigh  frantic.  Even  now  the  recollec- 
tion of  that  appalling  storm  calls  up  a  shudder. 

Why,  in  that  hour  of  affright,  did  1  think  so  fear- 
fully of  the  heaven-descending  deluge  that  of  old  de- 
stroyed men  for  their  sins  ? 

In  the  very  height  of  the  tempest,  just  as  old  Martin' 
was  trying  to  prove  to  me  that  the  excessively  vivid 
lightning  and  deafening  peals  of  thunder  were  tokens 
of  a  speedy  abatement,  we  were  startled  by  hearing 
from  without  some  half  dozen  furious  attempts  to  force 
the  door,  which  being  succeeded  by  clamorous  and 
roughly  eager  demands  for  admittance,  left  no  doubt 
that  human  beings  had  found  their  way  to  our  solitary 
abode.  Moved  by  profoundest  pity  for  the  poor  crea- 
tures exposed  to  the  fury  of  such  a  night,  I  flew  to 
unbar  the  door.  Three  men,  half  exhausted  by  a  bat- 
tle with  the  whirlwind,  rushed,  dripping  wet,  under  the 
offered  shelter. 


52  MY     CONFESSION. 

They  were  evidently  hunters,  as  I  easily  told  by 
their  rifles  and  attire.  Having  lost  their  way  in  the 
storm,  they  had  been  guided  to  temporary  shelter  by 
our  lighted  windows.  Two  of  them  I  saw,  at  once> 
were  of  the  usual  class  to  which  those  rough,  weather- 
beaten  men  belong ;  but  the  third  had  a  more  civilized 
gleam  in  his  dark  eyes,  and  a  something  in  his  face 
that  raised  it,  in  intellectual  expression,  infinitely  above 
those  of  his  companions. 

The  glances  of  open  and  astonished  admiration 
which  these  men  cast  on  my  innocent  child's  beauty, 
caused  me  at  once  to  retire  with  her  to  the  sleeping- 
room  above. 

God  knows  I  have  cause  to  .remember  that  night  for 
more  than  the  terrible  storm  it  produced ! 

Leaving  the  hunters  to  the  good  offices  of  Martin, 
we  sought  our  beds,  but  from  great  excitement,  found 
neither  sleep  nor  rest.  The  morning  broke,  clear  and 
golden.  Before  I  came  down,  our  visitors  of  the  pre- 
vious night  had  departed.  I  experienced  a  feeling  of 
relief  when  I  heard  them  leave  the  house,  for  never 
but  once  before  were  we  disturbed  by  the  intrusion  of 
a  white  man,  the  frequent  begging  calls  of  the  Indians, 
however,  being  nothing  uncommon. 

As  if  to  present  the  greatest  of  contrasts,  that  spring 
day  was  as  brightly  clear  as  it  was  possible  for  day  to 


MY     CONFESSION.  53 

be.  There  remained  no  cloud  in  the  sky,  no  spot  on 
the  earth,  that  was  not  all  beauty  and  sunshine. 

Not  many  days  after  this  furious  and  memorable 
tempest,  I  had  occasion  to  go  to  the  settlement  of 

,  on  one  of  my  quarterly  expeditions.  I  went 

alone,  as  was  my  habit. 

After  attending  to  the  various  duties  that  brought 
me  there,  I  stopped  at  the  post-office,  so  called  proba- 
bly from  courtesy,  for  the  mail-box  occupied  a  corner 
of  a  log  cabin.  Among  a  half  dozen  letters,  some  from 
friends,  and  one  from  my  lawyer,  with  its  customary 
remittance,  I  found  one  from  my  sister. 

It  was  written  incoherently  and  brokenly.  The 
hand-writing  was  scarcely  legible ;  but  a  postscript 
from  her  husband,  gave  me  more  decisively  the  tidings 
that  she  was  ill,  and  desired  to  see  me. 

"  For,"  wrote  she,  "  I  know  I  have  not  long  to  live, 
and  there  is  that  on  my  mind,  oh!  my  dear  sister,  which 
I  must  tell  you,  before  my  soul  goes  up  to  be  judged 
before  God  !  So  will  it  be  lightened  of  half  the  sin- 
load  it  will  carry.  O,  Adzema,  come  to  me !  come  and 
forgive  !" 

I  was  filled  with  amazement  on  reading  these  and 
other,  to  me,  mysterious  words.  What  had  the  pure- 
minded,  happy  Bianca  done  to  me  of  wrong,  that  my 
forgiveness  was  necessary  to  the  peace  of  her  dying 
bed  ?  Nothing,  nothing,  I  was  assured  ;  and  yet  I  felt 


54  MY     CONFESSION. 

I  must  see  her,  for  her  husband  wrote  that  her  days 
were  numbered.  Notwithstanding  my  anxiety  to  fly 
to  her  sick-room,  the  thought  of  Azalie,  alone  in  that 
western  wild,  rose  prominently  before  me.  How  could 
I  leave  her  ?  Yet  I  determined  to  go.  Although  I  had 
never  been  separated  from  her  for  more  than  a  day, 
my  duty  in  this  case  was  too  imperative  to  be  neg- 
lected. 

Besides,  what  was  there  to  fear  beyond  the  Indians, 
and  had  not  they  always  shown  themselves  friendly 
and  peaceable  in  their  almost  weekly  visits  ?  Had  not 
gifts  of  mutual  satisfaction  often  passed  between  us  ? 

I  flung  the  thought  of  danger  from  me,  and  mount- 
ing my  horse,  rode  as  fast  as  possible  over  the  weary 
thirty-five  miles  that  lay  between  home  and  me,  making 
up  my  mind  on  the  way  how  to  break  the  news  to  my 
child,  and  how  best  to  pacify  her  when  its  full  mean- 
ing dawned  upon  her. 

The  next  day  I  set  out.  Azalie  and  Martin  attend- 
ed me  as  far  as  the  horse-path  that  led  to  the  open 
road ;  then,  after  many  tears  and  embraces  from  my 
dear  daughter,  and  some  misgivings  on  my  own  part, 
I  quickened  Lady  Jane's  speed,  (though  the  poor  beast 
had  not  recovered  the  fatigue  of  the  day  before,)  and 
soon  found  myself  fairly  on  my  journey. 

Azalie's  sobs  were  the  last  sounds  I  heard  as  I  made 
a  sudden  turn  in  the  wood-path. 


MY     CONFESSION.  55 

Arriving  at ,  I  procured  shelter  and  care  for 

my  horse  until  my  return,  and  secured  farther  travel- 
ling accommodations  to  the  open  and  settled  part  of 
the  country.  More  than  once  my  feelings  so  nearly 
overpowered  me,  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  return- 
ing. 

I  would  a  thousand  times  that  I  had  ! 

Travelling  in  those  days  was  not  what  it  is  now. 
I  think  I  was  over  ten  days  in  reaching  my  sister's 
residence — a  distance  which,  at  the  present  time,  could 
be  gone  over  in  as  many  hours. 


ALL  these  details  trouble  my  brain  and  spirit.  I  have 
tried  to  forget  them  for  so  many  years,  that  to  call 
them  up  now,  seems  like  tearing  open  old  wounds. 
But  they  must  be  written — must  be  sent  out  to  the 
world  as  part  of  the  experiences  of  a  woman  whose 
passions  misled  her. 

I  reached  Bianca  just  at  twilight  on  theltenth  day. 
Her  husband — a  man  of  sterling  worth — met  me  on 
the  threshold  of  his  costly  city  residence.  He  appear- 
ed glad,  gratefully  glad  to  see  me. 

"  Thank  God  !  you  have  come  in  time,"  he  fervently 
ejaculated,  as  he  led  me  to  the  room  prepared  for  my 
reception.  "  For  the  last  three  hours  we  have  minute- 


56  MY     CONFESSION. 

1 Y  expected  her  to  breathe  her  last ;  but  she  said  she 
could  not,  would  not  die  till  she  had  seen  you." 

When  she  heard  of  my  arrival,  Bianca  sent  for  me 
with  eager  joy.  Our  meeting  was  affecting  in  the 
extreme,  and  to  me  most  painfully  so.  As  soon  as  it 
was  over,  scarcely  giving  herself  time  to  recover  from 
its  agitating  effects,  she  abruptly  ordered  her  attend- 
ants from  the  apartment,  and  when  her  husband  still 
lingered,  with  natural  unwillingness,  she  begged  him 
in  wild  impatience  to  leave  her  "  alone  with  Adzema." 

Her  great  beauty  was  not  all  gone.  Her  eyes  had 
still  their  blue-sky  lustre,  her  skin  its  white  transpa- 
rency. Sickness  and  the  lapse  of  years  had  impaired, 
not  robbed  her  of  her  charms. 

Never  can  the  intensity  of  her  manner  fade  from  my 
memory,  as,  half  elevating  herself  on  her  wasted  arm, 
she  said,  "  Promise  me,  dear  Adzema,  promise  me  be- 
fore heaven,  you  will  forgive  me,  or  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  is  to  be  forgiven  !  Promise  me,  as  if  all  heaven 
and  its  angels  heard  your  vow." 

"Dear  Bianca,  do  not  agitate  yourself  thus.  I 
promise  solemnly,  although  for  me  there  exists  no 
heaven.  If  all  sisters  had  as  little  to  forgive  as 

"  As  you,"  she  interrupted  vehemently — "  you  have 
to  forgive  me  the  ruin  of  your  soul.  You  have  to  for- 
give me  sending  you  astray  from  that  heaven  which 


MY     CONFESSION.  57 

only  now  you  denied.     Listen — quick,  for  my  strength 
fails,  and  I  cannot  die  with  my  unforgiven  sin,  and  its 
fearful  consequences.     Oh!  how   it  has   haunted  me 
ever  since  you  took  Azalie  to  Ohio,  to  educate  her  in 
ignorance  of  God  and  religion ;  for  that,  too,  is  on  my 
soul.     You  know  what  it  was  to  love  him ;  you  alone 
can  tell  the  temptations  that  beset  me.     How  could  I 
help  loving  him — was  not  he  good,  and  pure,  and  noble- 
minded  ?     Was  not  he  all  that  was — oh,  God  ! — and 
yet  he  never  loved  me !     I  saw  he  worshipped  you 
from  the  first ;  I  exerted  myself  to  entice  him  away 
from  you.     I  was  more  beautiful  than  you ;  I  tried  to 
allure  him  by  that  beauty,  and  all  the  while,  Adzema, 
I  saw  you  returned  his  passion  !    Was  I  not  base — was 
I  not  viler  than  the  worms  of  the  earth  ?     An  evil 
spirit  took  possession  of  me.     When  I  became  aware 
that  his  love  for  you  was  unchangeable,  I  declared  in 
my  degradation,  that  you  should  never  marry  him.     I 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  your  some  day  becoming 
his  wife.     I  poisoned  his  mind  with  falsehoods,  and  so 
adroitly  did  I  manage,  that  he  believed  me  as  readily 
as  he»would  have  believed  an  angel.     I  told  him  you 
were  already  the  betrothed  of  Ralph  Carrington ;  and 
great  joy  was  it  to  me  then  to  see  him  suffer  what  I 
had  so  long  suffered, — hopelsss,  undying   adoration! 
Oh !  my  sister,  my  only  sister — you  whom  I  have  so 
wronged,  what  might  have  been  your  fate,  had  not  I 

3 


58  MYCONFESSION. 

stepped  in  your  path  to  mar  your  happiness  !  I,  sur- 
rounded with  wealth,  and  you,  learning  the  hard  les- 
sons of  poverty  in  a  youth  made  doubly  wretched  by 
care  and  trouble !  Oh !  listen,  this  is  not  all !  Look  at 
the  consequences  of  my  ignoble,  unwomanly  false- 
hoods !  Look  at  the  consequences  more  than  the  sin 
itself!  Had  you  married  Paul  Rembrandt  then,  you 
would  have  lived  for  many  years  a  life  of  affection 
and  peace.  I  separated  you  for  a  worse  fate  than  that 
of  a  mere  passing  love-disappointment.  Your  im- 
petuous nature  took  fire.  Your  passion  lay  deeper 
than  I  thought,  and,  in  very  despite,  you  consented  to 
unite  yourself  to  Ralph.  What  has  your  life  been 
since ! — look  at  it,  and  see  how  it  cries  out  against  me! 
I  have  done  it  all ;  I  have  made  you  what  you  are ! 
On  my  soul  hangs  the  guilt  of  your  Atheism,  the  mon- 
strousness  of  your  child's  heathen  ignorance.  Oh,  sis- 
ter !  Oh,  Adzema,  pardon  me,  forgive  me  for  his  sake — 
/  loved  him,  too ;  cannot  that  make  some  pity  for  me  in 
your  breast  ?  Look  at  me — see  this  wasted  form — 
this  pallid,  fleshless  face !  They  tell  me  it  is  disease 
that  has  made  me  thus,  but  I  know  it  is  agony  of  mind 
wearing  out  the  body. 

"You  have  been  avenged!  Like  you,  I  married  a 
man  for  whom  I  experienced  nothing  but  indifference, 
and  for  years  on  years,  added  to  the  misery  that  that 
union  has  produced,  I  have  carried  in  my  heart  a  fire 


MYCONFESSION.  59 

of  retribution  for  my  crime  against  you,  burning,  burn- 
ing, burning — oh,  God !  I  feel  it  consuming  me  now  !" 

I  was  deeply  agitated.  As  I  looked  at  her,  half  sit- 
ting on  the  bed,  with  her  eyes  flashing  forth  an  un- 
earthly splendor,  and  her  thin,  white  hands  gesticulating 
violently  before  her,  I  began  to  weep.  They  were  the 
first  tears  I  had  shed  for  many  long  months  ;  and,  as 
they  flowed,  seemed  to  give  me  an  unmeasurable  re- 
lief. A  feeling  of  indignation  oppressed  me  for  one 
moment,  this  confession  was  so  new,  so  unexpected  ; 
but  the  next,  my  good  angel  befriended  me  and  bore 
it  away.  I  thought  only  of  Bianca  and  myself  as  little 
children,  and  then  softening,  I  pressed  my  two  arms 
gently  round  that  fragile  form,  and  told  her  to  think  of 
her  sorrow  no  more,  that  I  loved  her  well,  and  always 
should  as  long  as  my  life  lasted.  A  faint  smile  played 
over  her  lips,  and  then  she  softly  uttered,  "  that  is  not 
enough,  sister.  Say  to  me  the  words,  '  I  forgive  you, 
as  I  hope  God  will  forgive  me.' " 

"  There  would  be  no  virtue  in  them  if  1  did,  dear 
Bianca, — you  know  I  do  not  believe  in  God." 

Her  face  darkened  again.  "  But  you  must  believe 
in  God!"  Then  more  softly  she  urged — "Oh,  do  not 
spurn  an  immortality!  Let  me  make  all  right  that 
which  I  once  made  so  wrong.  I  cannot  go  down  to 
my  grave  in  peace  and  leave  you  in  such  night  as  this  ! 


60  MYCONFESSION. 

Sister,  dear  sister,  listen  to  my  prayer,  as  you  would  to 
a  voice  from  the  dead." 


MUCH  more  she  said  to  me  before  she  died.  But 
there  was  a  rock  of  iron  in  my  bosom  on  which  her 
voice  beat  as  a  wave  upon  a  stony  shore.  Yet  as 
her  last  troubled  breath  went  from  her,  she  blessed  me. 


WITH  a  chastened,  but  not  a  subdued  spirit,  I  turned 
towards  my  western  home.  Henceforth  my  child  was 
indeed  to  be  my  all ;  I  had  just  buried  the  last  of  my 
kindred.  Brooding  gloomily  over  my  desolate  situa- 
tion in  the  wide  world,  I  pursued  my  way  back  again 
to  solitude.  There,  in  those  wilds  of  nature,  I  still  de- 
sired to  bury  myself  and  my  misfortunes  from  all  my 
kind.  As  I  journeyed  slowly  along,  half  unconscious- 
ly, I  reviewed  my  past  life.  Recalling  its  few  joys 
and  many  griefs,  I  uttered  a  fervent  hope  that  my 
child's  fate  might  differ  from  mine.  "  Rather,"  1 
thought,  "  would  I  see  her  in  her  grave  !" 

It  was  early  morning  when  I  neared  home.  The 
sun  was  scarcely  up,  for  in  my  impatience  to  see 
Azalie,  I  had  ridden  all  night.  Lady  Jane  drooped 


MY     CONFESSION.  61 

her  proud  head  in  utter  fatigue,  as  we  emerged  from 
the  dark  forest  into  the  open  fields  that  led  to  the  log- 
cabin.  Its  doors  and  windows  were  still  closed,  and 
there  was  nothing  astir  without,  that  gave  token  of 
either  Martin  or  Azalie  having  risen. 

Bounding  from  my  horse,  I  knocked  loudly,  and 
called  to  them  to  open  to  me. 

It  seemed  an  age  (for  I  was  half  wild  with,  eager- 
ness), before  Martin  unbarred  the  door.  Startled  by 
his  solemn  air,  and  pale,  haggard  countenance,  I 
pushed  past  him  into  the  room.  My  child  was  not 
there  to  meet  me  ;  everything  was  silent  as  death.  A 
presentiment  of  evil  hovered  over  me,  as  I  cried  in 
agony — 

"  Oh !  Martin,  Martin,  where  is  Azalie  ?" 
He  sank  down  fainting  before  me,  and  moaned  out : 
"  Oh,  my  lady,  she  has  gone  and  left  you ;  she  has 
gone  and  left  you,  and  only  God  knows  where !" 


"MOTHER,  dear,  darling,  beautiful  mother,"  (thus 
the  note  run  which  my  innocent  child  had  left  for  me,) 
"  do  not  weep,  for  I  shall  be  home  soon,  and  then  we 
will  be  happier  than  we  have  ever  been  before.  Philip 
loves  me  so  much,  dear  mother,  that  he  says  he  will 
come  and  live  with  us  always,  and  love  you  and  dear 


62  MY    CONFESSION. 

old  Martin  just  as  I  do.  And  I  would  not  have  gone 
away  at  all,  only  he  said  I  should  be  here  again  almost 
as  soon  as  you.  Do  you  remember  that  awful  storm 
just  before  you  went  away  ? 

"  That  was  when  Philip  Randel  first  saw  me,  and  he 
says  he  loved  me  even  then.  We  have  met  often  in 
the  woods  since,  sometimes  down  by  the  brook,  and 
sometimes  near  the  old  blasted  cedars.  He  did  not 
like  to  come  to  the  cabin,  because  he  thought  perhaps 
Martin  would  not  like  it, — I  do  not  know  why  though, 
— I  am  sure  Martin  could  not  help  liking  him.  I  go 
away,  dear  mother,  to  return  again  very,  very  soon. 

"  O  do  not  be  displeased  with  me.  I  cannot  but  love 
him ;  and  if  I  do,  Philip  says  I  should  be  willing  to 
marry  him.  And  so  I  am. 

"  O,  darling  mother,  do  not  feel  badly  about  me,  you 
will  love  him  too,  when  we  come  back  to  you." 


DAYS  and  weeks  rolled  away ;  to  me  they  passed  in 
a  whirlwind  of  agony,  for  they  brought  no  tidings  of 
my  lost  child.  My  punishment  was  indeed  greater 
than  I  could  bear.  The  tortures  of  the  Inquisition 
were  nothing  to  those  I  endured  in  my  broken-hearted 
suspense. 

I  caused  the  country  to  be  scoured  in  all  directions 
by  the  Indians,  dazzling  them  with  promises  of  great 
rewards  in  return  for  the  least  news  of  my  daughter 


MYCONFESSION.  63 

and  her  destroyer,  for  such  was  my  terrible  convic- 
tion. I  offered  all  I  possessed  for  the  discovery  of  her 
abode.  In  vain.  The  wily  hunter  had  hidden  her  too 
securely  or  too  far  away  for  effort  of  mine  to  reach 
her.  I  know  not  how  my  hand  can  write  of  this  man 
so  calmly, — man,  are  fiends  men  ? 

I  never  heard  if  it  was  as  my  mother's  heart  feared. 
I  never  knew  the  history  of  her  wrongs,  nor  whither 
she  went.  But  I  do  know,  and  the  knowledge  is  awful 
with  significance,  that  before  the  day  of  her  flight 
reached  its  anniversary,  she  returned  to  her  home  in 
the  bosom  of  that  snow-covered  wild,  and  in  the  piti- 
less wintry  night-time  died  upon  the  threshold  of  its 
barred  door.  Died  of  cold,  exhaustion  and  hunger ! 
Died,  oh  God !  in  blind  ignorance  of  Thee !  Died  to 
earth,  and  died  to  heaven ! 

Death  alienated  me  from  God,  and  death  returned 
me  td  Him.  In  that  time  of  fearful  affliction,  He 
opened  my  eyes  to  my  crime.  There  came  upon  me 
the  sudden  consciousness  of  a  heavy  guilt.  I  felt  I 
had  destroyed  an  immortal  spirit.  Too  late,  the  enor- 
mity of  my  wickedness  dawned  upon  me.  Appalled 
by  the  blackness  of  its  reality,  I  fell  upon  my  knees 
unto  Him  whom  I  had  outraged,  and  prayed  for  mercy ; 
mercy  for  my  dead  child — mercy  for  myself! 

All  this  was  years  ago.  A  flourishing  town  now 
stands  over  the  spot  where  we  made  Azalie's  forest- 
grave. 


64  MYCONFESSION. 

Religion  has  taught  me  resignation,  although  time 
has  but  deepened  my  remorse.  By  humble  and  holier 
deeds  than  those  here  chronicled,  I  strive  to  atone  for 
that  past,  whose  phantom  memories  haunt  me  forever. 

I  have  given  up  solitude.  Amid  city  life,  surround- 
ed by  blessed  human  faces,  I  am  gradually  approach- 
ing my  end.  In  my  old  age,  God  has  led  me  from  the 
dangers  of  that  faith  whose  strength  lies  in  its  imagi- 
native fascinations,  to  that  One  Religon  of  which  He 
is  the  Head  and  All.  When  I  close  my  weary  eyes 
upon  this  world,  may  it  be  my  safety  for  eternity ! 

But  one  remnant  of  the  faith  of  my  youth  do  I  still 
cherish.  It  is  a  solemn  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  Prayer 
for  the  Dead. 


I  have  finished.  I  trust  that  this  brief  STORY  OF  A 
LIFE  may  go  forth,  winged  with  a  blessing  from  hea- 
ven, and  be  productive  of  unbounded  good. 


SYBIL  RIVERS. 


"  SAVE  me  from  the  past,  good  angel, 
This  is  all  I  ask  of  thee  !  " 

ALICE  CAREY. 

"  Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air ; 

I  heard  Thee  where  the  waters  run  ; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair." 

TENNYSON. 

ON  the  yellow  sands  of  the  New-Jersey  shores 
stood  one  day  a  young  girl  watching  the  progress  of  a 
steamship  that  was  putting  out  to  sea.  Her  gaze  was 
fastened  steadfastly  upon  it,  as  on  an  object  of  uncom- 
mon interest,  and  she  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hands 
that  she  might  behold  it  more  clearly. 

Fainter  and  fainter  grew  the  outlines  of  the  vessel, 
fading  gradually  away,  until  it  was  lost  upon  the  vast 
reach  of  water,  and  vanished  in  the  distance. 

Then  the  girl  threw  herself  wildly  on  the  wet  sand, 
and  wept.  "  Gone,"  she  cried,  "  gone  away  forever 
— gone,  and  my  very  life  with  him  !  Oh,  Ormon  Mor- 
ton, God  alone  knows  the  wealth  of  love  I  bear  you !" 


66  SYBIL    RIVERS. 

She  rose  up,  and  tearing  a  single  letter  from  her  bo- 
som, rent  it  in  fragments,  and  scattered  them  to  the 
winds  and  waves.  Her  hat  had  fallen  off,  and  her 
black  hair  blew  in  disordered  masses  over  her  face, 
which,  if  not  beautiful,  was  by  no  means  an  uninterest- 
ing one.  As  the  torn  paper  floated  around  her  in  the 
breeze,  she  smote  her  breast  fiercely,  and  murmured — 

"  So  should  my  unknown,  unpaid  love  perish  too !  I 
cannot,  I  ought  not  live  in  such  humiliation, — I  must 
become  without  reproach  in  my  own  eyes.  I  will  go 
away, — I  will  find  employment  where  association  can- 
not lend  aid  to  memories  bitter  enough  in  themselves. 
Any  where — any  where  but  here  ! 

She  stooped  to  reach  her  crumbled  bonnet,  and  with 
slow  steps,  and  bent,  thoughtful  head,  walked  up  the 
sloping  shore  to  the  green  fields  beyond. 

Scarcely  was  she  gone,  when,  from  a  clustering 
groop  of  fir  trees  under  the  edge  of  the  bank,  emerged 
the  figure  of  a  man.  As  he  neared  where  the  young 
girl  had  stood,  he  turned  to  look  after  her  retreating 
form,  and  when  a  bend  in  the  path  hid  her  from  his 
eyes,  he  cried  in  triumph — 

"  Sybil — Sybil  Rivers !  as  you  have  spurned  my 
love,  so  will  I  find  means  to  humble  you  by  your  own  ! 


SYBILR1VERS.  67 

THREE  years  passed. 

•"  There  they  come ! — there  they  come  !"  was  the 
joyful  cry  that  arose  from  the  Oaks  (a  pretty  villa  on 
the  banks  of  the  Hudson),  as,  at  the  close  of  a  bright 
day,  a  carriage  broke  to  view  from  a  rolling  cloud  of 
dust  on  one  of  the  adjacent  roads. 

The  Colonel  shouted  to  Jacob  to  be  ready  to  open 
the  gates.  Mrs.  Morgan  ran  to  take  a  last  peep  at  the 
rooms  prepared  for  her  guests,  and  Miss  Rose  danced, 
and  flitted  about  the  piazza,  in  delighted  expectation. 

A  moment  more,  and  the  great  gates  were  thrown 
back,  and  the  carriage  rolled  up  the  avenue. 

Then  ensued  greetings,  inquiries,  and  embraces, 
which  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe. 

It  was  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Morton,  and  her  daughter 
Silvia,  that  we  have  just  chronicled.  Mrs.  Morgan 
and  Mrs.  Morton  were  sisters.  Each  had  been  heir- 
esses and  belles  in  their  youth,  and  since  their  respec- 
tive marriages  had  never  met. 

Mrs.  Morgan  was  the  wife  of  a  Northern  gentleman 
of  education  and  fortune,  and  Mrs.  Morton  the  widow 
of  a  Southern  planter. 

Shortly  after  the  settlement  of  her  husband's  entan- 
gled affairs,  Mrs.  Morton  had  decided  to  take  up  her 
residence,  for  some  little  time,  in  Colonel  Morgan's 
family.  Rose  and  Silvia  had  nerer  seen  each  other. 
Their  first  kiss  of  cousinship  was  given  on  the  piazza 


68  SYBILRIVERS. 

of  the  Oaks,  Colonel  Morgan's  country-seat.  Though 
in  different  styles,  the  two  girls  were  remarkably  alike. 
They  were  nearly  of  the  same  age.  Rose  was  a  little 
jetty  beauty,  with  flashing  black  eyes,  glossy  raven 
curls,  and  the  air  and  complexion  of  an  Egyptian 
princess,  petite  and  plump  though  she  was.  Silvia 
had  a  more  delicate  frame  than  her  cousin,  more  lan- 
gour  in  her  brown  eyes,  more  simplicity  in  her  general 
appearance.  She  was  rather  slenderly  formed,  and 
somewhat  German  in  expression,  her  grandfather  hav- 
ing come  from  that  people.  Rose  was  good-natured, 
merry  and  light-hearted ;  Silvia,  quiet  and  retired. 
Despite  their  many  contrasts,  no  one  could  mistake 
the  likeness  between  them.  Both  were  only  daughters. 

Rose's  welcome  to  her  cousin  was  the  acme  of  cor- 
diality. She  put  her  little  brown  arms  around  Sil- 
via's neck,  and  nearly  smothered  her  with  caresses. 
Silvia  took  this  reception  very  passively.  She  kissed 
her  cousin  in  return  on  one  of  her  rosy  cheeks,  and 
calmly  disengaging  herself  from  the  embrace  of  those 
pretty  arms,  turned  to  greet  her  aunt  and  the  Colonel. 

The  meeting  between  the  two  sisters  was  touching 
to  look  upon.  Their  youth  had  departed,  their  beauty 
had  faded,  children  had  been  born,  and  death  had  be- 
reaved them  since  last  they  were  together.  The  tears 
of  the  good  ladies  flowed  freely,  as  they  were  again 
pressed  in  each  other's  arms. 


SY1U.L,     RIVERS.  69 

Colonel  Morgan  was  one  of  those  men  who  hate  to 
look  upon  the  tears  of  women.  His  mind  was  not 
quite  fine  enough  to  understand  them,  and  his  sunny, 
careless  humor,  too  antagonistic  to  any  such  sorrowful 
proceeding  to  countenance  them.  In  the  present  in- 
stance, he  speedily  put  an  end  to  them,  by  suddenly 
clasping  his  wife  and  sister-in-law  tightly  around  the 
waist,  an  arm  for  each,  and  vowing  to  kiss  them  till 
their  weeping  ceased.  Now,  the  Colonel  wore  a  huge 
moustache,  the  application  of  which,  on  the  cheek, 
was  by  no  means  agreeable ;  as  his  sister-in-law  had 
already  discovered  this  fact,  she  wisely  dried  her 
tears. 

Shortly  afterward  Mrs.  Morgan  led  the  way  to  the 
rooms  prepared  for  her  visitors.  They  were  pleasant 
and  retired,  adjoined  one  another,  and  were  furnished 
with  tasteful,  costly  elegance.  The  window-curtains 
were  of  the  richest  and  rarest  fabrics,  veiling  land- 
scapes, even  richer  and  rarer  still ;  while  the  furniture, 
although  new,  was  in  choice  antique  patterns,  elabo- 
rately carved  and  inlaid ;  the  walls  were  hung  with 
tapestry. 

Mrs.  Morgan  remembered  something  of  her  sister's 
regal  tastes  in  the  days  of  their  youth;  she  had 
spared  neither  time  nor  expense  in  fitting  up  these 
rooms  for  her  and  her  daughter.  It  had  been  a  labor 
of  love. 


70  SYBILRIVERS. 

As  the  group  of  ladies  entered,  a  young  person,  who 
was  arranging  a  vase  of  flowers  in  one  of  the  broad 
window-sills,  advanced,  and  was  introduced  by  Mrs. 
Morgan  as, 

"  My  daughter's  friend  and  governess." 

She  was  tall,  by  no  means  handsome,  but  of  an 
erect  and  distingue  carriage,  that  well  supplied  the 
place  of  mere  beauty  of  face.  She  bowed  slightly, 
but  rather  proudly,  and  left  the  apartment. 

Rose  assisted  her  cousin  to  change  her  travelling 
attire,  chatting  all  the  while  at  the  full  speed  of  her 
tongue — a  brilliantly  witty  one  it  chanced  to  be  just  at 
that  time — and  then  the  bell  signalled  tea. 


"  SILVIA,"  asked  Rose  about  a  week  after  the  arrival 
at  the  Oaks,  "  what  do  you  say  to  a  quiet  ride  down 
to  Meadowside  this  afternoon.  I  can  order  the  horses 
this  minute  if  you  like.  Shall  I  ?" 

Silvia  slowly  raised  her  brown^  eyes  from  the  work 
on  her  lap,  and  said,  without  the  slightest  display  of 
pleasurable  animation — 

"  I  should  like  to  go ;"  and  Rose  went  to  bespeak  the 
horses,  gaily  singing,  as  she  went, 

"  I  love  nobody, 
Nobody  loves  me  " 


SYBILRIVERS.  71 

When  her  cousin  returned,  Silvia  begged  pardon 
for  her  thoughtlessness  in  not  remembering  she  had 
given  away  her  riding  habit,  on  leaving  Florida,  and 
coldly  hoped  to  be  forgiven  for  occasioning  the  unne- 
cessary trouble  of  ordering  the  horse. 

"  But  Miss  Rivers  will  lend  you  her  habit.  Will 
you  not,  Sybil  ?"  asked  Rose,  disappointed. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  her  governess,  with  that*  air  of 
calm  good-breeding,  which  Silvia  had  more  than  once 
remarked — "  will  you  allow  me  to  get  it  for  you,  Miss 
Morton  ?  Our  figures  are  something  alike ;  I  am 
quite  sure  it  will  fit  you." 

Rose  was  just  in  the  act  of  triumphantly  carrying 
off  her  cousin  nolens  volens,  when,  to  her  surprise, 
Silvia  drew  herself  up  haughtily,  and  said — 

"  Excuse  me,  I  cannot  accompany  you." 

A  light  dawned  on  Rose.  She  saw  her  cousin  in  a 
new  phase  of  character.  She  was  proud. 

Rather  than  stoop  to  borrow  a  dress  of  her  cousin's 
governess,  a  creature  generally  looked  down  upon  at 
the  South  as  a  betweenity,  vibrating  above  the  slave, 
and  below  the  housekeeper,  Silvia  Morton  determin- 
ed to  forego  her  ride. 

And  she  did. 

Rose's  tender  eyes  opened  to  their  full  extent.  A 
feeling  of  indignation  choked  her  for  a  moment,  but 
she  very  sensibly  conquered  it ;  took  no  farther  notice 


72  SYBIL     RIVE  US. 

of  Silvia's  refusal,  and  going  up  to  her  governess, 
asked  if  she  would  accompany  her  to  Meadowside. 

Miss  Rivers,  of  course,  had  felt  the  slight.  Very 
collectively,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  with  a  half  smile  of 
intelligence  at  her  pupil's  open-hearted  face,  she  de- 
c'ined  going.  Rose,  however,  was  not  to  be  thwarted 
a  second  time ;  besides,  she  wanted  the  malicious  satis- 
faction of  entreating  her  governess  before  Silvia, 
whom  she  remembered  she  had  not  urged  at  all. 

Miss  Rivers  yielded.  I  know  not  how  it  happened, 
for  she  was  generally  very  firm  in  adhering  to  a  first 
determination. 

They  were  soon  equipped,  governess  and  pupil,  each 
in  black  cloth  habits  and  straw  riding-hats,  trimmed 
with  long  tresses  of  narrow  scarlet  ribbon,  that  had 
the  effect  of  plumes,  without  their  heaviness.  They 
were  both  young,  both  striking  looking,  and  both  prac- 
ticed and  self-possessed  horsewomen. 

Rose  Morgan  was  much  attached  to  this  governess 
of  hers.  There  was  not  enough  difference  in  their 
ages  to  mar  the  similarity  of  their  tastes  and  pursuits  ; 
Miss  Rivers  being  about  twenty-six,  and  her  pupil 
some  seven  or  eight  years  younger.  There  existed 
perfect  harmony  between  them ;  the  influence  of  the 
governess  over  the  student  was  by  no  means  weaken- 
ed as  a  consequence  of  their  sisterly  intercourse. 

Sybil  Rivers  was  poor  and  proud.     Early  left  an 


SYBIL    RIVERS.  73 

orphan,  she  had  been  bred  for  the  state  in  life  which 
she  then  occupied.  She  appreciated  it  and  herself; 
she  felt  herself  to  be  a  true  lady,  notwithstanding  her 
position,  and  not  unfrequently  encountered  those 
whose  fortunes  were  greatly  superior  to  her  own', 
on  whom  she  looked  down  in  an  intellectual  point 
of  view.  This  fact  served  to  increase  the  hauteur 
which  her  circumstances  engendered.  No  one  was 
able  to  say,  however,  that  Sybil  R  ivers  over-stepped 
the  boundaries  of  her  position. 

She  was  perfectly  educated. 

Followed  by  Jacob,  the  coachman,  the  two  young 
ladies  set  out  on  their  ride.  Rose  had  a  few  pur- 
chases to  make  in  the  village,  and  one  or  two  calls  on 
some  of  her  many  "  dear,  dear  friends." 

"  How  do  you  like  Silvia  ?"  she  abruptly  asked  Miss 
Rivers,  as  they  rode  along  the  pleasant,  rural  highway, 
overshadowed  by  venerable  trees. 

"  Very  well,"  was  the  brief  answer.  It  surprised 
Rose,  because  she  knew  her  governess  never  dissimu- 
lated. 

"  And  why,  Sybil  ?  how  can  you  like  her  after  such 
treatment  as  you  received  from  her  ?" 

"  My  dear,"  responded  Miss  Rivers,  laughing,  "  I 
like  her  for  the  very  anti-democracy  she  displays  to- 
wards me.  I  like  her  because  she  resembles  myself; 
I  am  far  from  being  democratic  in  my  ideas.  We  are 
proud  alike. 


74  SYBILRIVERS. 

"  I  do  not  like  her  at  all !"  cried  Rose,  impulsively. 
"  Before  she  came  I  thought  I  should  love  her,  and  so 
I  might  if  she  had  allowed  me ;  but  I  cannot  bear 
these  cold,  calculating  creatures,  that  never  speak  a 
word,  without  weighing  it  in  their  minds  for  five 
minutes.  And  as  for  her  pride,  Sybil,  1  do  not 
dignify  it  by  the  name,  it  is  merely  a  combination  of 
vanity  and  disdain.  Now  acknowledge,  don't  you 
think  her  disdainful  ?" 

"  Yes,  rather ;  but  then  she  is  so  beautiful,  it  sits 
well  upon  her." 

"  Mother  says  she  is  engaged,  although  she  has  not 
herself  honored  me  with  her  confidence.  Her  fiance, 
and  her  brother,  Ormon,  are  expected  to  join  them 
very  soon." 

Rose  dropped  her  bridle,  clapped  her  hands,  and 
laughed. 

Miss  Rivers  was  too  much  accustomed  to  such  un- 
expected ebullitions  to  be  much  astonished.  She 
merely  turned  her  stately  head,  half  smiled  at  the 
pretty  fairy  at  her  side,  and  inquired  what  was  the 
subject  of  her  merriment. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Rose,  "  I  was  just  thinking  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  Silvia  will  probably  receive  her  lover. 
There  came  a  picture  before  me  of  two  dignified  peo- 
ple shaking  hands  very  calmly  and  coldly,  and  saying 
nothing  in  particular.  Oh,  Sybil !  what  a  splendid 


SYBIL     RIVERS.  75 

thing  it  must  be  to  have  a  real  earnest,  honest  lover ! 
When  /  get  one  such,  I'll  not  keep  it  a  secret,  you 
may  be  sure,  like  my  cousin, — oh  no.  I'll  post  the 
fact  up  at  all  the  corners  of  the  streets,  and  let  every- 
body see  I  am  not  the  least  bit  ashamed !" 

Sybil  laughed,  and  said  she  doubted  not  she  would 
live  to  change  her  mind. 

"  No,  indeed,"  cried  Rose,  indignantly,  "  never." 

"  Yes  you  will,  my  dear,"  remarked  Miss  Rivers, 
"/have.  I  used  to  think  just  like  you  when  I  was 
your  age." 

"You  do  not  mean  to  say  you  have  ever  been 
in  love,"  demanded  Rose,  with  a  look  of  mock  won- 
der.  "  I  can  very  easily  imagine  people  loving  you, 
but  as  for  the  condescension  of  a  return  on  your  part, 
I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  Why  the  very  way  you 
look  at  men  shows  you  consider  them  an  inferior  race. 
I  suppose  there  is  not  the  least  bit  of  use  in  insinuat- 
ing that  I  should  like  to  know  something  of  your 
heart  affairs  ?" 

"  No,  not  the  least  use,"  laughed  Sybil.  "  Do  you 
think  I  want  the  whole  world  to  hear  the  news? 
When  I  do,  I  will  tell  you.  Rose,  you  are  a  veritable 
magpie." 

But  Rose  heard  not  the  reproof.  A  side  road  dis- 
closing some  acquaintances,  she  had  cantered  away  to 
meet  them. 


76  SYBIL     RIVERS. 

Sybil  looked  after  her,  and  sighed.  There  was 
something  so  fresh,  so  guileless  about  her  pupil,  that 
she  could  not  but  remark  the  contrast  between  them, 
and  that  with  an  inward  prayer  that,  on  Rose's  part, 
it  might  never  be  less. 

Sybil  Rivers  had.  loved,  loved  with  a  sincerity,  an 
intensity,  far  beyond  Rose  Morgan's  comprehension. 
But  it  was  a  silent  love,  unknown  even  to  its  object. 

Rose  soon  parted  from  her  friends,  and  returned 
with  an  added  color  on  her  cheeks,  and  a  smile  upon 
her  lips. 

"Bell  Riker's  pic-nic  is  decided  at  last,  Sybil. 
She  and  Gilbert  were  just  going  to  the  Oaks,  with  in- 
vitations for  Silvia  and  us,  I  am  glad  of  anything  to 
vary  the  monotony  of  this  stupid  country  life.  The 
pic-nic  is  for  to-morrow  evening.  Shall  you  go  ?" 

"  I  think  so ;  although  unlike  you,  I  do  not  need  it 
as  a  variety  in  this  '  stupid  country  life.'  I  was  in- 
tended for  a  country  girl,  I  think." 

"  Whereas  /  was  born  for  the  city,  and  find  myself 
compelled  to  pass  one  half  the  year  in  this  horrid, 
dusty, — good  gracious,  Sybil,  who  was  that  ?'' 

Miss  Rivers  concluded  her  bow  to  a  gentleman  who 
had  paused  to  claim  it  as  he  rode  by,  and  then  answer- 
ed— 

"An  old  acquaintance  of  mine, — a  Mr.  Allandorph." 

"  del,  what  eyes !  An  old  lover,  did  you  say,  Sybil  ?" 


SYBIL     RIVERS.  77 

But  Sybil  was  too  busy  whipping  down  an  apple 
from  a  branch  that  hung  over  the  road,  to  hear  the 
question. 

The  distance  from  the  Oaks  to  Meadowside  was 
some  four  or  five  miles.  An  unrivalled  road  for  a  ride 
it  was,  too,  even  as  planking,  and  commanding  views 
of  more  than  common  loveliness, — views  of  wood  and 
mountain,  river  and  valley.  The  sun  grew  near  sit- 
ting, and  the  extreme  heat  of  the  day  was  beginning 
to  be  relieved  by  the  early  cool  of  coming  twilight. 

Touching  up  their  horses,  the  two  girls  hastened  on 
to  Meadowside,  followed  closely  by  Jacob,  who  had 
too  poor  an  opinion  of  "  the  ridin'  of  wimmin,"  to 
trust  his  young  mistress  out  of  sight  for  one  instant. 
Reaching  the  village,  Rose  made  her  purchases,  and 
they  turned  homeward.  It  was  then  too  late  to  make 
the  intended  calls,  and  from  the  effects  of  disappoint- 
ment Rose  was  very  quiet  all  the  way.  Miss  Rivers 
was  silent  too,  not,  however,  like  Rose,  from  vexation ; 
her  nobler  nature  was  subdued  by  the  solemn  beauty 
of  the  scene,  and  of  the  deepening  twilight. 

It  was  late  when  they  reachsd  the  Oaks.  The  stars 
were  out,  and  the  dews  falling  heavily. 

As  Rose  and  her  governess  passed  up  the  wide  stair- 
case to  don  their  usual  evening  dresses,  they  saw 
through  the  open  doors  that  the  family  was  already  at 


78  SYBIL     RIVERS. 

tea,  and  Rose's  quick  orbs  noted  in  an  instant  the 
presence  of  a  stranger  at  the  table. 

Rose  was  a  little  of  a  coquette.  She  took  especial 
pains  with  her  toilet  that  night,  and  succeeded  in  look- 
ing as  fresh  and  pretty  as  possible.  Every  one  knows 
there  is  nothing  like  an  object  as  incentive  for  exer- 
tion. Rose  believed  that  the  gentleman  of  whom  she 
had  caught  a  glimpse  in  the  tea-room,  was  either  the 
brother  or  lover  of  Silvia  Morton, — in  both  cases  a 
good  impression  was  desirable.  She  knew  that  in 
black  she  appeared  to  more  advantage  than  in  colors, 
so  she  attired  herself  in  a  black  barege,  with  a  glossy 
under-skirt  of  white  silk,  and  in  her  curls  placed  some 
unearthly  flowers,  whose  pendant  scarlet  tendrils  dal- 
lied over  her  bare  shoulders.  Very  fantastic,  but  very 
pretty,  looked  Rose  Morgan  as  she  descended  to  the 
tea-room. 

Miss  Rivers  did  not  take  the  same  time  or  pains 
with  her  attire  as  her  pupil,  for  Rose  found  her  at  the 
table  as  she  entered,  and  what  was  more,  she  was  con- 
versing with  the  visitor  quite  at  her  ease.  By  the 
light  of  the  wax  candles,  Rose  saw  at  a  glance  that  he 
was  no  other  than  the  gentleman  they  encountered 
during  their  ride. 

Mrs.  Morgan  introduced  him  as  the  Reverend  John 
Allandorph.  Rose  and  he  exchanged  bows,  and  the 


SYBIL     RIVERS.  79 

conversation,  that  had  been  interrupted  by  her  en- 
trance, was  resumed. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Allandorph  was  very  handsome. 
Many  other  people  had  thought  so  before  Rose  Mor- 
gan. He  was  rather  portly  in  appearance,  about  thirty- 
five  or  six  years  of  age,  and  anything  but  clerical-look- 
ing, that,  is  to  say,  he  neither  wore  a  white  necker- 
chief, nor,  affecting  the  mannerisms  of  the  profession, 
crossed  his  hands  when  they  were  not  otherwise  oc- 
cupied. 

He  and  the  Colonel  got  on  admirably  together. 
They  had  travelled  over  the  same  ground,  read  the 
same  books,  and  met  the  same  people.  Much  to  Rose's 
chagrin,  they  monopolized  the  whole  conversation 
with  discussions  on  foreign  countries,  and  the  litera- 
ture belonging  to  them.  Just  as  they  were  leaving  the 
table,  however,  a  well-turned  compliment,  on  the  fear- 
lessness and  style  of  her  own  and  Miss  Rivers'  riding, 
made  ample  amends  for  previous  neglect. 

In  the  drawing-room  the  evening  passed  delightfully. 
Colonel  Morgan  was  sincerely  hospitable ;  his  house 
was  always  open ;  his  purse  and  table  ever  ready.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  who  divide  all  their  happiness 
with  their  families,  and  do  not  seek  for  pleasures 
abroad  which  are  not  shareable  with  the  home  circle. 
Blessings  on  all  such  men,  say  I ! 

Silvia  was  very  still.     Generally  quiet,  this   night 


80  SYBILRIVERS. 

she  was  unusually  so.  She  did  not  join  in  the  music 
of  the  evening,  nor  indeed  did  she  seem  even  to  listen 
to  Rose's  or  Miss  Rivers'  brilliant  and  effective  play- 
ing. 

It  seemed  as  though  all  her  faculties  had  one  centre, 
and  that  was  the  Reverend  John  Allandorph.  Where- 
ever  he  moved,  her  eyes  followed  him  in  dreamy  ab- 

* 

straction. 

Silvia  Morton  was  naturally  of  an  affectionate  dispo- 
sition, but  the  circumstances  of  her  early  life  had  com- 
bined to  make  her  cold,  suspicious  and  haughty. 

Her  father  had  been  the  cause  of  much  sorrow  to 
his  family.  He  was  originally  a  gay,  generous  man, 
and  evil  associations  had  turned  that  generosity,  that 
cheerfulness  of  disposition,  into  wrong. 

He  perished  miserably,  a  roue  and  drunkard,  leav- 
ing his  wretched  wife  to  rejoice  at  a  release  from  her 
own  living  death.  Silvia's  childhood  had  been  witness 
of  terrible  scenes.  Her  youth  was  crushed  from  her, — 
she  was  a  woman  in  feeling  when  an  infant  in  years. 
Yet,  though  outwardly  cold,  she  possessed  a  capacity 
for  strong  and  passionate  attachment.  Mr.  Allan- 
dorph she  had  loved  very  deeply  for  many  months  be- 
fore he  offered  her  his  hand,  and  since,  her  affection 
for  him  had  grown  like  a  portion  of  her  life.  He  was 
some  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  her  elder — she  venera- 


SYBIL     RIVERS.  81 

t  ed  him  for  his  profession,  years  and  intellect,  as  much 
as  she  worshipped  him  as  her  lover. 

Notwithstanding  the  neglected  state  of  Mr.  Mor- 
ton's affairs  at  the  time  of  his  death,  Silvia  was  an 
heiress.  When  the  final  settlements  were  made,  much 
of  his  former  fortune  was  unexpectedly  found  to  re- 
main to  his  widow  and  children,  and  a  portion  of  it 
was  expressly  willed  by  him  to  his  daughter. 

"Silvia,"  asked  Rose,  "did  you  know  Miss  Rivers 
and  Mr.  Allandorph  had  met  before  ?" 

Poor  Rose  could  not  have  asked  a  question  with 
more  innocence,  yet  its  effect  on  her  cousin  was  start- 
ling. She  glanced  at  the  piano,  where  sat  Sybil  dal- 
lying with  the  white  keys,  while  talking  earnestly  to 
Mr.  Allandorph,  who  half  bent  over  her  to  catch  what 
she  said  the  more  distinctly.  There  was  a  slight  frown 
on  Miss  Rivers'  face,  and  a  compression  about  the  lips 
that  told  she  was  laboring  under  great  excitement ; 
whilst  Mr.  Allandorph's  expression  was  that  of  half- 
concealed  triumph. 

Rose  caught  her  cousin's  earnest  gaze  riveted  upon 
them,  and  turned  to  look.  Even  she  was  surprised 
by  what  she  saw,  and  particularly  as  she  knew  Sybil's 
habits  of  uncommon  self-control.  It  was  evident  the 
subject  of  the  conversation  must  be  of  great  interest  to 
both,  and  certainly  it  signified  a  previous  familiarity 
of  acquaintance. 

4 


82  SYBILRIVERS. 

Neither  of  the  cousins  spoke.  At  length  an  irresisti- 
ble impulse  seized  Silvia ;  half  fiercely,  she  turned  to 
Rose,  and  demanded — 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  If  you  dare  to  in- 
sinuate that  he  is,  or  has  ever  been,  the  lover  of  that 
woman " 

A  deadly  paleness  overspread  her  features.  She 
sank  into  a  chair  without  finishing  her  sentence. 

Rose's  tender  little  heart  was  touched  in  an  instant 
by  such  evident  suffering.  The  harsh  words  were 
forgotten  ;  she  put  her  arm  around  her  cousin's  waist, 
and  said,  caressingly, — 

"  What  a  foolish  little  piece  you  are,  Silvia  ;  I  did 
not  say  or  insinuate  anything  of  the  kind.  Don't 
shiver  so,  for  mercy's  sake ;  you  will  have  every  one 
around  you." 

Silvia  scarcely  heard  the  sound  of  her  voice.  Her 
gaze  was  again  chained  to  the  piano-forte.  "  It  cannot 
be,"  she  articulated.  "  Love  her  !  Allandorph  love  a 
poor  governess !  Never !" 

She  pressed  her  hands  suddenly  over  her  heart,  as 
though  some  agonizing  throe  had  riven  her  very  being. 
She  seemed  unconscious  that  Rose  was  at  her  side, 
and  that  her  unguarded  words  were  heard.  A  strange 
fire  flashed  from  her  beautiful  eyes,  as  she  groaned 
half  inaudibly,  and  with  a  curl  of  more  than  habitual 
pride  on  her  lips, — 


SYBIL     RIVERS.  83 

"  If  he  has  loved  her,  he  shall  not  love  me,  so  help 
me  heaven!" 

Just  then  a  servant  entered  with  a  tray  of  refresh- 
ments, and  placed  it  on  the  table  by  which  Silvia  and 
Rose  stood.  Immediately  afterwards,  Colonel  Morgan 
came  towards  it  with  Mr.  Allandorph  to  make  punch. 
There  was  no  retreating  for  the  moment;  and  Rose 
seeing  her  cousin  was  utterly  unfitted  for  conversation, 
kindly  shielded  her  from  it,  by  taking  a  prominent  and 
playful  part  in  the  punch-making,  laughing  and  talking 
merrily  as  she  did  so,  to  which  two  things  little  Rose 
was  by  no  means  averse  at  any  time.  Silvia's  agita- 
ted countenance  passed  unobserved.  At  the  first  fa- 
vorable moment  she  rose,  and  pleading  a  throbbing 
headache  to  Mrs.  Morgan,  withdrew  quietly  to  the 
silence  of  her  own  room. 

Strong  as  agony  were  the  sensations  warring  in  that 
young  girl's  bosom.  Passionate  love,  and  stern,  un- 
yielding pride  battled  in  deadly  contest, — love  for  the 
mastery  of  pride,  pride  for  the  overthrow  of  love. 

The  coldest  people  outwardly  are  sometimes  those 
who  feel  the  most.  The  bare  suspicion  of  her  lover 
having  wooed  another,  and  that  other  so  beneath  him 
in  rank,  filled  her  with  acute  wretchedness.  But  it 
was  more  a  pride-grief  than  a  love-grief.  She  had 
suspected  something  of  the  kind  before  Rose's 
very  natural  question  caused  her  to  frame  it  in  words. 


84  SYBIL     RIVERS. 

Not  a  tear  escaped  the  haughty  girl.  She  flung 
herself  on  her  couch,  and  tried  to  repress  even  the 
deep-drawn  sighs  that  forced  their  way  between  her 
clenched  teeth. 

Ah,  what  a  humiliation  it  was,  even  to  imagine  that 
beautiful,  wealthy,  young,  as  she  was,— -she  loved  one 
who,  in  her  patrician  opinion,  had  abased  himself!  She 
felt  as  though  she  could  have  torn  her  heart  out  and 
trampled  it  beneath  her  feet,  the  humiliation  was  so 
galling. 

When  Rose  Morgan  retired  for  the  night,  her  loving 
heart  was  full  of  trouble.  She  knew  her  friend  too 
well  to  suspect  her  of  duplicity  towards  Silvia,  and  she 
saw  that  as  long  as  she  was  unwarned  of  the  state  of 
Silvia's  mind,  she  would  probably  continue  to  wound 
her  by  frequent  displays  of  intimacy  with  Mr.  John 
Allandorph,  as  she  had  been  witness  of  that  night. 
Yet  Rose  dreaded  to  annoy  Miss  Rivers,  even  by  a 
mere  hint,  of  the  misery  she  was  causing  Silvia.  It 
seemed  to  her  like  attacking  her  friend's  integrity  ;  at 
all  events,  the  information  was  calculated  to  destroy 
her  comfort  and  independence  while  Silvia  remained 
with  them,  and  her  visit  at  the  Oaks  was  scarcely  be- 
gun. What  should  she  do  ?  She  set  her  wise  young 
head  to  thinking,  bit  her  little  pink  finger-nails  very 
energetically,  and  tried  to  come  to  some  conclusion. 


SYB1LEIVERS.  85 

Should  she  wound  Sybil's  feelings,  and  save  Silvia's, 
or  let  things  progress  as  they  would  ? 

She  decided  on  the  former  course,  and  with  her 
usually  bright  face  a  perfect  picture  of  forlorn  dis- 
tress, took  her  way,  on  tip-toe,  across  the  corridor,  to 
Miss  Rivers'  sleeping-room. 

She  tapped  very  softly  on  the  door,  that  she  might 
not  disturb  the  rest  of  the  family  ;  and  with  a  trepida- 
tion very  unlike  her  usual  way  of  rushing  in  helter- 
skelter,  waited  for  Sybil  to  say,  "  come  in." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  the 
door  opened.  Sybil  was  partially  undressed,  and  had 
stopped  to  put  her  feet  in  her  slippers,  and  throw  a 
shawl  over  her  fine  shoulders.  She  was  evidently  sur- 
prised to  see  no  one  but  Rose. 

'*  Oh,  Sybil,"  began  Rose,  "  I  am  so  sorry." 

"Sorry?  What  about, — has  anything  happened, — 
are  you  sick,  Rose,  dear  ?" 

"  Oh,  no.     I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"Very  well,  what  is  it?  Has  your  bird  escaped,  or 
have  you  spoiled  your  pretty  barege,  and  its  white  silk 
jupe ?" 

"  Oh  please  don't  laugh.     If  you  only  knew,  Sybil !" 

"  How  can  I  know,  if  you  will  not  tell  me !" 

"  Well,  then,  it's  about  you." 

"  About  me  ?    What  have  I  been  doing,  pray,  to  make 


80  SYBIL     RIVERS. 

you  look  so  dismally, — for  all  the  world  like  a  kitten 
just  revived  from  drowning.  Come,  tell  me,  Rose." 

"  Oh,  Sybil,  do  be  serious." 

'•  I  am  serious, — serious  as  an  owl." 

Rose  could  not  stand  it  any  longer.  She  went  to 
the  broad  window-sill,  threw  herself  on  it,  and  began 
to  cry.  Miss  Rivers  was  now  really  alarmed,  and  ten- 
derly tried  to  soothe  her. 

"  Oh,  Sybil,"  Rose  sobbed  out  at  intervals,  "  why  did 
you  talk  so  to  Mr.  Allandorph  to-night." 

"  What  did  we  say, — did  any  one  hear  us  ?"  de- 
manded Miss  Rivers,  quickly — her  whole  manner 
changing  in  an  instant. 

"  No,"  answered  Rose,  wiping  her  eyes,  "  nobody 
heard  you,  but  everybody  saw  you  ;  and  Silvia,  oh  !  she's 
just  as  mad  as  fury  at  you!" 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Sybil,  in  a  tone  of  deep,  but  half- 
suppressed  interest. 

"  Oh  !  you  won't  be  angry,  Sybil,  if  I  tell  you  ?" 

"  Why  should  I,  my  poor  child.  I  am  not  quite  an 
ogress,  I  believe,"  and  she  kissed  her  softly. 

"  You  know  Silvia  is  very  proud,  Sybil,  and  I  be- 
lieve— that  is,  I  think — she  imagines  Mr.  Allandorph  has 
been  a  lover  of  yours.  She  was  half  frantic  to-night, 
when  she  saw  you  talking  together  over  the  piano, 
and  she  said,  oh !  Sybil,  she  said,  that  if  ever  he  had 
1  oved  you,  he  should  not  love  her  !" 


SYBIL     RIVERS.  87 

"  Well,  Rose  ?" 

"And,  Sybil,  I  don't  believe  you  love  him  a  bit; 
Ilideed,  I  do  not.  But  Silvia  is  so  unhappy,  and  looked 
so  wild,  that  I  thought  I  must  tell  you,  and  ask  you 
not  to  talk  much  with  Mr.  Allandorph  in  her  presence.' 
She  was  almost  delirious." 

"  Poor,  poor  child,"  said  Sybil,  abstractedly. — 
"  Rose  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  am  in  great  trouble,  will  you  aid  me  ?" 

Rose  looked  surprised,  but  said  instantly, — 

"  Indeed  I  will,  with  all  my  heart." 

"  And  you  will  never  mention  what  I  tell  you  ?" 

Rose  brightened  amazingly. 

"  No,  indeed,  never,  never  !" 

The  scarlet  shawl  on  Sybil's  shoulders  half  drooped 
from  them,  her  long  dark  hair  falling  over  it  and  her 
white  neck  in  unbound  profusion.  Looking  very  pale, 
and  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  Sybil  said, — 

"  Rose,  John  Allandorph,  Reverend  as  he  is,  is  a  bad 
and  wicked  man.  He  is  guilty  of  gross  crimes,  and 
has  been  expelled  from  his  church.  He  is  well  aware 
that  I  know  this — I  knew  it  long  ago.  He  did  not 
expect  to  see  me  here  to-night,  nor  did  I  hear  until 
to-night  that  he  was  engaged  to  your  cousin. 

"  Ros.e,  that  man  possesses  a  secret  of  mine,  with  the 
disclosures  of  which,  he  has  dared  this  day  to  threaten 


88  SYBIL      RIVE  US. 

me,  if  I  reveal  his  real  reputation  either  to  your  family 
or  the  Mortons.  That  secret  I  would  die  rather  than 
have  known, — it  is  at  once  my  glory  and  my  shame*; 
and  yet,  I  must  warn  your  cousin  and  her  mother  of 
'this  man.  Oh,  Rose !  what  can  I,  what  ought  I  to  do  ?" 

Rose  was  silent. 

"  Allandorph  is  a  brilliantly  intellectual  man,  he  can 
charm  an  angel  into  delusion.  It  is  no  wonder  that 
your  cousin  loves  him." 

''And  you  think,  Sybil,  he  will  positively  reveal  your 
secret  if  you  expose  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  certainly, — he  is  possessed  of  the  worst  pas- 
sions on  earth.  He  will  not  hesitate  an  instant.  Oh ! 
it  would  kill  me  to  have  that  known !" 

All  the  good  in  Rose's  woman's  nature  was  now 
thoroughly  awakened  ;  softly  she  whispered, — 

"My  dear  friend,  confide  in  me.  Let  me  share  your 
cruel,  cruel  position  ;  let  me  help  you  if  I  can." 

Miss  Rivers  bowed  her  face  upon  her  hands,  and  a 
crimson  tide  mantled  to  her  temples. 

''  I  cannot,  I  cannot ;  the  shame  is  too  great." 

"  Have  you  ever  loved  Allandorph,  Sybil  ?"  asked 
Rose,  after  a  pause. 

Sybil  raised  her  hand  with  indignant  majesty.  "Al- 
landorph ! — love  that  hypocritical  monster  ?  Never  /' 

Rose  was  now  distressed  doubly.  She  knew  not 
how  to  advise  her  friend  to  act.  All  she  could  do  was 


SYBIL     RIVERS.  89 

to  offer  consolation,  and  try  to  infuse  a  faith  into  her 
mind  that  all  would  some  time  come  right. 

"  Let  us  hope,"  she  said  tenderly,  "that  Silvia  will 
of  herself  discover  the  evil  in  this  man — will  of  herself 
discard  him  ;  if  so,  you  forfeit  nothing.  I  beg  of  you 
not  to  let  all  this  afflict  you  too  much.  It  is  growing 
late.  I  will  leave  you  to  try  and  still  yourself.  Sleep 
away  your  fears  for  the  safety  of  your  secret,  what- 
ever it  may  be,  dear,  dear  Sybil." 

She  kissed  her,  and  went  away  as  noiselessly  as  she 
had  come. 

When  she  was  gone,  Miss  Rivers  threw  up  the 
window  and  leaned  out.  Everything  was  still  as 
death.  Clouds  obscured  both  moon  and  stars ;  all 
space  was  filled  with  a  beautiful,  mournful  grey. 
There  were  lights  from  the  night-boats,  gleaming  up 
and  down  the  Hudson ;  they  attracted  her  attention  to 
that  dark,  rapid  river,  and  she  longed  to  quench  her 
sense  of  burning  shame  in  its  waters. 

"  Death,  peace,  oblivion,"  she  murmured  ;  and  press- 
ing her  hot  head  on  her  arms  crossed  on  the  sill,  wept 
herself,  childlike,  into  an  uneasy  slumber. 

"  Who  is  going  to  the  Hiker's  pic-nic  to-night  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Morgan,  the  next  morning,  at  breakfast. 

"  I  am,  for  one,"  responded  Rose,  pausing,  in  butter- 
ing her  toast,  to  cast  a  look  of  entreaty  at  Miss 
Rivers. 

4* 


90  SYBIL     RIVEKS. 

"And  who  else,"  said  Mrs.  Morgan,  glancing 
around  the  table, — "  you,  Silvia  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  answered  Silvia,  with  an  air  of  in 
difference. 

Sybil  was  silent. 

"  What  pic-nic  is  it,"  said  Mr.  Allandorph.  "Will 
any  of  you  fair  ladies  smuggle  me  in  as  escort  ?" 

"  Cousin  Silvia  will,  I  have  no  doubt,"  half  laughed 
Rose ;  "  as  for  Miss  Rivers  and  myself,  we  are  already 
provided  with  the  article.  I  despatched  Jacob  down 
to  Mr.  Wall,  with  a  note  this  very  morning,  and  have 
just  received  his  acceptance,  for  rain  or  shine,  for  bet- 
ter or  worse." 

"  My  dear  Rose,  I  hope  you  have  not  mentioned 
my  name  in  that  important  document,  have  you?" 
said  Sybil,  listlessly.  "  I  do  not  feel  like  going  to- 
night. I  really  am  not  well." 

"  Just  as  if  you  do  not  know  it  will  do  you  good," 
exclaimed  Rose,  making  with  her  spoon  a  shockingly 
intimidating  gesture  at  her  governess  from  behind  Mr. 
Allandorph.  "  Ever  since  the  flood,  pic-nics  have 
been  recommended  as  sovereign  remedies  for  ill- 
health." 

"  And  particularly  night  pic-nics,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Morton,  who  had  her  own  reasons  for  desiring  Sybil's 
plea  to  be  accepted.  "  The  damp  evening  air  is  a 


SYBILRIVEES.  91 

well-known  health-giver.  It  never  yet  caused  rheu- 
matism, fevers,  colds " 

"  Now,  aunt,"  interrupted  Rose,  in  real  despair,  "  I 
think  that  is  scarcely  kind.  Sybil  was  just  smiling  on 
me,  and  you  have  done  away  with  all  the  good  of  my 
persuasion.  However,  for  my  sake,  she  will  not  care 
for  such  trifling  things  as  fevers  and  rheumatism, — is 
it  not  so,  Sybil  ?  Don't  say  '  no.'  " 

She  did  not  say  "  no,"  but  smiled,  and  shook  her 
head  gently. 

"  Oh !  we  must  all  go,"  cried  Mr.  Allandorph.  "  We 
will  take  great  care  of  you,  Miss  Rivers.  Shall  you 
not  accompany  us  ?" 

He  darted  a  quick,  but  meaning  glance  upon  her 
face.  Sybil  shivered  slightly,  and  turning  to  Rose, 
said,  "  she  might  possibly  change  her  decision  if  she 
became  no  worse." 

And,  in  the  heart  of  Silvia  Morton,  that  look  was 
treasured  up  as  a  terrible  link  in  the  chain  of  her  sus- 
picions. 

Rose  was  in  the  midst  of  an  interminable  jumble 
about  Sybil's  being  obliging  for  once  in  her  life,  when 
her  father  broke  in  upon  her,  by  asking  Mr.  Allan- 
dorph if  he  had  read  Schiller's  "  Song  of  the  Bell/' 

"  A  long  while  ago.  I  scarcely  remember  it,  espe- 
cially as  I  read  it  in  the  original,  and  have  now  nearly 


92  SYBILR1VERS. 

forgotten  the  language.     How  do   you  like  it,  Colo- 
nel ?" 

"  Like  it !  I  do  not  like  it  at  all — I  love  it,  although 
I  have  merely  read  translations.  It  is  perfect  in  its 
way.  I  happen  to  know  something  of  the  circum- 
stances under  which  it  was  written,  and  that  gives  it 
a  double  interest.  Have  you  ever  heard  the  story  ?" 

Mr.  Allandorph  said  he  had  not. 

"It  appears,"  began  the  Colonel,  vigorously  carving 
a  beefsteak,  "  that  Schiller  was  one  day " 

"  Was  one  day,"  repeated  Mr.  Allandorph,  as  the 
Colonel  made  a  long  pause ;  but  the  tale  of  Schiller's 
inspiration  was  to  remain  unuttered.  Colonel  Mor- 
gan sat  directly  opposite  the  door,  and  as  he  acciden- 
tally glanced  that  way,  his  attention  was  attracted  by 
seeing  the  white  figure  of  a  woman  flit  through  the 
hall.  It  was  like  none  of  the  servants,  and  hastily 
looking  around,  he  saw  that  sll  the  ladies  of  the  family 
were  present.  As  he  rose  to  ascertain  the  object  of 
so  strange  an  intrusion,  Jacob,  the  coachman,  stagger- 
ed into  the  room,  his  rough  Irish  visage  working  with 
affright,  and  his  eyes  rolling  from  side  to  side. 

"Oh  Kernel!  Kernel!"  he  cried  loudly,  "that  I 
should  av  lived  to  see  this  day  !"  and  dropping  on  his 
knees,  Jacob  began  rapidly,  and  in  great  terror — 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  slape, 
I  pray  the  Lord  me  sowl  to  kape — " 


SYBIL     RIVERS.  93 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  Irish  rascal  ?"  thundered 
Colonel  Morgan,  in  a  rage.  "  Get  up  this  minute,  and 
cease  making  a  booby  of  yourself.  What's  the  mat- 
ter with  vou  ?" 

» 

But  Jacob  continued  on  his  knees,  rocking  himself 
to  and  fro,  and  crying — 

"  Oh  Lord !  oh  Lord !  that  I  av  lived  to  see  this 
day." 

Some  of  the  ladies  laughed,  and  all  with  a  slight, 
but  unaccountable  sensation  of  fear,  grouped  them- 
selves together. 

Colonel  Morgan  was  very  easily  excited.  He 
strode  up  to  Jacob,  and  swore  to  kick  him  out  of  the 
room  if  he  did  not  say  at  once  what  had  happened. 

"  Well,  yer  honor,  if  yer  plaze,"  cried  Jacob,  a  little 
subdued  at  the  threat,  "if  ye'll  jist  kape  quiet  a  bit, 
I'll  till  ye.  Shure,  yer  honor,  it  wasn't  me  own 
fault — it  was  not  of  me  own  mind  I  wint  and  see 
sick  sights.  By  the  Blissed  Virgin,  I  till  ye,  I've  seen 
a  ghost,  a  rale  live  ghost !  Ben't  that  enough  to  make 
a  dacent  man  say  his  prayers  shure  ?" 

But  the  Colonel  did  not  seem  at  all  mollified.  He 
uttered  not  a  word  of  what  he  himself  had  seen,  how- 
ever, but  abruptly  went  to  search  the  house,  leaving 
Jacob  trembling,  groaning,  and  talking  by  turns. 

"  Oh,  yer  honor,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  Mr. 
Allandorph,  "Shure  'tisn't  the  fust,  nor  the  second 


SYBIL     RIVERS. 

time,  I've  bin  bothered  wid  a  sight  of  the  ghost  this 
very  day, — och !  that  I  should  meet  the  unlucky 
crather  at  all,  at  all !  Styire,  yer  honor,  'twas  white  as 
death,  and  jist  kinder  whisked  apasl  me,  makin'  its 
onairthly  arms  move  over  its  head  so,  yer  honor. 
Och,  ye  would  have  know'd  it  was  a  ghost  by  me 
knase  knockin'  together.  The  fust  time  I  see  it,  was 
whin  I  took  Miss  Rose's  lether  (God  bliss  her  swate 
face !)  down  to  the  village.  Shure,  as  I  wint  apast 
the  bend  at  'Squire  Button's,  I  see  somthin'  white,  a 
gleamin'  in  the  bushes  at  one  side  the  road,  and  jist 
as  bould  as  a  lion,  I  marched  up  to  it,  and  sez  I,  Jacob 
Maloney,  sez  I,  ye  must  see  what  that  be ;  so,  yer 
honor,  I  parted  the  bushes  and  looked  in,  and,  oh 
Lord,  Mr.  Allandorph,  do  ye  b'lave  there  was  the  ugly 
crather  a  shakin'  its  arms  like  mad,  right  'fore  me 
face.  I  didn't  stop,  yer  honor,  to  see  what  it  wanted, 
but  off  I  wint,  as  fast  as  me  two  legs  could  carry  me. 
Och  !  whin  I  cam  back,  there  it  was  still,  only  plainer, 
and  it  rolled  its  big  eyes  awful." 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  Jacob,"  said  Mrs.  Morgan  kindly, 
"  you  must  not  believe  in  ghosts.  There  never  was 
such  a  thing  in  the  world.  Go  down  to  the  kitchen, 
and  ask  Nancy  for  your  breakfast.  This  travelling 
on  an  empty  stomach  has  made  you  sick." 

"  Stoomic !"  ejaculated  Jacob,  disdainfully,  as  he 
moved  towards  the  door,  "  shure,  its  not  me  stoomic  J 


SYBILR1VERS.  95 

see  wid,  onyhow.     Faith,  Mrs.  Morgan,  the  sperit  is 
in  the  house  this  very  minute." 

Mrs.  Morton  and  Rose  half  shrieked. 

"  Yis,  me  ladies,"  continued  Jacob,  looking  gratified 
at  the  sympathy  he  was  beginning  to  create — "yis,  me 
swate  ladies,  I've  jist  seen  the  ugly  crather  in  the 
intry,  when  I  cam  in,  and  it  whisked  up  stairs  like 
lightnin'.  Shure  ye'll  b'lieve  me  now,  whin  it  is  in  the 
house  wid  ye,  and  the  Colonel  a  lookin'  afther  it. 
Stoomic !" 

Jacob  indignantly  left  the  room,  followed  rather 
hurriedly  by  Mr.  Allandorph. 

"  Good  gracious,  what  can  it  all  mean  ?"  uttered 
Rose,  faintly. 

"  Rose,"  said  Miss  Rivers,  "  do  not  be  foolish.  You 
are  as  white  as  Jacob's  ghost  itself." 

"  Well,  father,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  ?"  ex- 
claimed Rose,  as  Colonel  Morgan  returned. 

"  Matter,  child  !  nothing,  nothing.  Jacob  has 
taken  a  drop  too  much  on  the  way  to  Meadowside, 
that  is  all.  There  isn't  a  trace  of  anybody,  or  thing, 
to  be  found  in  the  house.  Confound  the  rascal,  with 
his  cock-and-bull  stories." 

And  the  confusion  the  circumstance  had  caused 
died  away,  without  the  Colonel  mentioning  his  own 
evidence  on  the  subject. 

The  morning  was  very  beautiful,  (one  of  those  cool 


96  SYBIL     RIVERS. 

and  balmy  mornings  so  refreshing  in  the  heat  of  sum- 
mer,) and  gave  every  token  of  a  clear  and  moonlight 
night. 

Mr.  Ormon  Morton  was  expected  to  arrive  some- 
time that  day  at  the  Oaks — his  mother  and  sister  were 
in  consequence  in  a  very  excited  state  of  mind.  It 
was  three  years  since  Mrs.  Morton  had  held  this  son 
in  her  arms — three  years  since  she  had  looked  upon 
his  beloved  face.  He  had  arrived  two  days  before 
from  Europe,  where  he  had  gone  for  his  health,  and 
whence  he  had  been  recalled  by  the  news  of  his 
father's  death. 

"  Ormon  is  coming, — he  is  coming  to-day,"  was  the 
only  burden  of  conversation  at  the  Oaks. 

Heart-sick,  and  well  nigh  despairing,  that  morning 
passed,  to  Sybil  Rivers,  like  an  eternity  of  misery. 

There  was  a  mighty  shame  tugging  at  her  bosom. 
It  devoured  her  peace — it  corroded  her  life. 

She  sought  her  own  room,  and  flinging  herself  on 
her  bed,  tried  to  sleep,  that  she  might  thus  escape 
from  her  rebuking  thoughts. 

But  the  effort  was  in  vain !  The  words,  "  Orman  is 
coming  to-day,"  rang  through  her  brain,  and  put  slum- 
ber afar  from  her  eyes. 

"  He  will  soon  know  all,"  she  moaned,  "  all — ALL. 
He  will  hear  from  Allandorph,  of  my  love  my  long- 
enduring,  unasked  love,  for  him, — for  I  must  brave  this 


rSYBIL     RIVERS.  97 

man's  threats — 1  must  save  his  sister.  Heaven  alone 
knows  how  bitter  is  this  trial, — how  like  gall  and 
wormwood  is  my  threatened  dishonor !" 

A  slight  movement  of  one  of  the  scarlet  brocade 
window-curtains  attracted  Sybil's  attention.  She 
paused,  looked  towards  it ;  but,  seeing  nothing,  resum- 
ed her  train  of  forlorn  thought. 

^.  "  Why !  oh  why  do  I  love  this  man,"  she  asked  her- 
self, wildly, — "why  should  I  cling  to  the  hope  of  his 
love  ?  He  knows  not  my  own,  and  when  he  does,  he 
will  despise,  but  never  return  it !  Why  should  I  love 
him,  when  station,  wealth,  and  pride  of  family,  stand 
between  us,  like  barriers  of  ice  ?  I  am  poor, — he  is 
rich  and  haughty.  Why,  why  do  I  dare  to  hope  ? 
Can  he  ever  love  me — me,  obscure,  plain  Sybil 
Rivers  ?  No,  no,  that  will  never  happen,  shamed, 
humbled  creature  that  I  amr! 

"  To-day,  this  very  hour,  I  will  expose  Allandorph 
a  he  deserves,  and  then  leave  the  Oaks  forever.  My 
suffering  will  be  brief,  though  it  is  bitter  as  death, 
compared  to  Silvia  Morton's  fate,  if  she  marry  that 
man,  undeceived  ; — marry,  thinking  him  an  angel,  and 
finding  him  a  devil,  thirsting  for  her  money ! 

"This  hour,  before  Ormon  Morton  can  reach  the 
Oaks,  I  will  humble  Allandorph  to  his  proper  position, 
save  Silvia,  and  ruin  myself!  Then  I  will  go  away 
at  once, — leave  this  pleasant  and  happy  home,  and 


1J8  SYBILRIVERS. 

escape  the  ignominy  of  meeting  Ormon  Morton,  face 
to  face,  when  he  shall  have  heard  that  I,  unasked, 
have  loved  him  so  long  in  vain.  God  help  me  !" 

She  started  up  as  though  to  leave  the  room.  As 
she  did  so,  a  deep  drawn  sigh  vibrated  on  her  ear ;  the 
window-curtains  parted  before  her,  and  to  her  aston- 
ished gaze,  appeared  the  wan  face  of  a  poor,  half- 
crazed  orphan  girl,  whom  she  had  known  well  in  her 
native  village  years  before,  and  whose  ruin  and  deser- 
tion had  been  the  original  cause  of  the  Reverend 
John  Allandorph's  expulsion  from  his  pulpit. 

"  S'hush,"  said  the  poor,  mad  girl,  advancing  to- 
wards Sybil,  and  looking  around  cautiously,  as  though 
she  dreaded  and  expected  detection.  "Don't  you 
know  me,  Miss  Rivers  ?" 

"Know  you,  my  poor  girl,"  murmured  Sybil,  "I 
fear  you  do  not  even  know  yourself." 

"  I've  come  after  John,  my  John,  Miss  Rivers,  he's 
here,  isn't  he  ?" 

"  Yes,  Lucille,  he  is ;  but  do  you  think  he  will  like 
to  see  you  ?  Don't  you  know  this  house  is  not  his, 
Lucille  ?'" 

"  What  of  that,"  asked  the  girl  impatiently,  "  what 
difference  does  that  make  to  me?  Don't  I  love  him 
better  than  anybody  on  earth,  and  haven't  I  followed 
him  here  to  tell  him  my  child  is  dead, — my  little  dar- 
ling JFohn  ?  I  killed  it  myself.  I  wouldn't  have  it  live 


SYBIL    RIVERS.  99 

longer  for  all  the  world ;  there  was  something  in  its 
eyes  that  used  to  hurt  me  when  I  looked  at  it.  I 
don't  know  what,  though  !" 

Her  gaze  was  fixed,  and  staring  with  insanity ;  there 
was  a  glare  about  it  that  appalled  her  frightened 
listener.  She  shrank  from  her,  and  sank  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed. 

"  See  here,"  said  Lucille,  laughing  wildly,  "  don't  be 
frightened.  There  isn't  another  woman  alive  that  I 
used  to  like  as  well  as  you,  Sybil  Rivers." 

She  went  up  to  her,  and  softly  touched  her  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  Come  now,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  about  it. 
Won't  you,  Sybil  ?" 

"  About  what,  my  poor  Lucille  ?" 

"About  him, — about  the  wedding;  tell  me  every- 
thing about  it,  and  don't  call  me  poor  again !" 

Sybil  did  not  answer ;  she  knew  not  what  to  say. 
There  was  a  few  minutes  of  silence,  during  which  the 
mad  girl  eyed  her  with  a  pitiful  and  appealing  earnest- 
ness. 

"  Is  she  pretty,"  she  asked  at  length  ;  "  are  her  eyes 
bright  like  mine,  Sybil  ?  Show  her  to  me,  won't  you  ? 
I've  wanted  so  long  to  see  her  !" 

Then,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  passion,  she  added — 

"  I'll  never  believe  that  she  loves  him.  Nobody  can 
love  him, — nobody  shall  love  him  but  me  .''"' 


100  SYBIL    RIVERS. 

"  Poor,  poor  Lucille,"  softly  said  Sybil,  looking  at 
her  tenderly. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  call  me  poor?  I'll  not 
bear  it !  I'm  not  poor.  I  will  not  be  pitied  by  any 
one!1' 

"  How  did  you  get  here,  Lucille  ?" 

"  I  am  hungry.  Give  me  something  to  eat,  and  I'll 
tell  you." 

Miss  Rivers  hesitated.  "  Will  you  stay  in  this 
room  perfectly  quiet  while  I  am  gone  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  will." 

Sybil  left  her  on  this  assurance,  but  soon  returned 
with  a  large  plateful  of  the  luncheon  that  was  being 
prepared  for  the  family. 

The  mad  girl  ate  as  if  she  were  famished,  and,  in- 
deed, in  her  wanderings  around  the  Oaks,  she  had  not 
tasted  food  for  many  hours.  When  she  had  done,  she 
pushed  the  plate  from  her,  folded  her  arms  on  the 
table,  and  looking  up  in  Miss  Rivers'  face,  with  a 
blank,  childlike  expression  on  her  own,  said  in  a  whis- 
per— 

"  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  little  Johnnie  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  her  companion,  shuddering. 

"  Well,  not  many  days  ago,  I  dropped  him  in  the 
water, — he  didn't  cry  out  at  all, — wasn't  it  strange  ? 
He  sank  right  down,  right  down  !  Oh,  I  wish  his 
eyes  had'nt  hurt  me  so ;  I  might  have  kept  him  till  we 


BiTBIL     KIVERS.  101 

went  to  heaven  together.  But  they  burned, — they 
burned  me  like  fire !  Nobody  will  ever  know  it, — will 
they,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Sybil,  sternly ;  "yes,  Lucille,  God  knows 

it.  Oh,  how  could  you -"  but  she  stopped,  when 

she  remembered  the  hopeless  derangement  of  the  lost 
being  before  her. 

Presently  Lucille  began  to  show  tokens  of  extreme 
weariness.  Her  eyelids  drooped,  her  head  fell  upon 
her  bosom,  and  the  dead  calm  of  sleep  descended  on 
her  insanity  and  sorrows.  Sybil  gently  took  her 
wasted  form  in  her  arms,  and  laid  it  on  the  bed  with 
tender  care.  She  smoothed  back  the  long,  fair  locks 
from  the  wild  face,  and  thought  mournfully  of  the 
wreck  her  youth  and  beauty  had  met  on  the  great  sea 
of  life. 

Poor,  beautiful,  and  friendless — there  are  volumes 
in  the  words ! 

The  mad  girl's  sleep  was  the  deep,  peaceful  sleep  of 
childhood.  The  working  of  her  features  ceased,  her 
breath  came  evenly  and  calmly,  as  though  she  had 
never  known  a  care  in  her  life.  She  was  young,  very 
young,  not  more  than  twenty,  and  as  she  lay  there, 
with  a  sweet,  though  vacant  smile  upon  her  thin  lips, 
she  appeared  like  a  child  indeed. 

Sybil's  heart  filled  with  pity  as  she  looked. 

After  awhile,  there   came  a  low  tap  at   the  door. 


102  SYBIL     RIVERS. 

Opening  it,  she  found  one  of  the  servants,  with  a  mes- 
sage from  Colonel  Morgan,  to  request  her  presence  in 
the  drawing-room  as  soon  as  possible.  She  returned 
answer  that  she  would  come  in  a  few  moments,  and 
closing  the  door,  debated  about  leaving  her  sleeping 
charge  alone.  She  decided  almost  instantly  to  take 
advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  tell  Colonel  Morgan 
all  she  knew  of  the  unfortunate  girl's  history. 

"  Now,  or  never !"  she  said  bitterly,  as  she  soft!  y 
left  the  poor  crazed  Lucille  to  her  unbroken  slumbers. 

She  found  Colonel  Morgan  and  Mrs.  Morton  in  the 
drawing-room  together.  The  Colonel  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  apartment  evidently  in  a  disturbed  state 
of  mind  ;  Sybil  did  not  sit  down,  but  stood  before  them 
in  half  frightened,  but  graceful  dignity. 

"Sybil,"  said  Colonel  Morgan,  kindly,  "  I  have  a 
very  impudent  question  to  put  to  you,  and  one  which, 
from  my  soul,  I  believe  to  be  unnecessary.  You  will 
forgive  me  if  it  should  seem  intrusive." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Sybil,  simply,  wondering  what  could 
be  the  object  of  the  interview. 

"  Well,  then — pshaw, — it's  too  ridiculous  !  Sister, 
ask  for  yourself." 

"  All  we  want  to  know,  Miss  Rivers,"  said  Mrs. 
Morton  frigidly,  -  is  whether  the  Reverend  Mr.  Al- 
landorph  is,  or  has  been  at  any  time,  an  admirer  or 
lover  of  yourself.  A  candid  answer  will  oblige." 


SYBIL     RIVER  3.  103 

Sybil's  pride  was  raised  in  an  instant. 

"  Is  a  lover,  Mrs.  Morton !"  she  repeated,  indig- 
nantly ;  "  is  it  possible  I  am  thought  capable  of  receiving 
the  unholy  love  of  a  man,  affianced  before  heaven 
as  the  husband  of  another  !" 

Her  tall  form  dilated  ;  her  face  flushed  scarlet. 

Mrs.  Morton  remained  as  coldly  haughty  as  before. 

"May  I  ask  an  explanation  of  this  singular  question?" 
said  Sybil,  after  a  slight  pause. 

"  The  whole  thing  is  simply  this,  my  dear  girl,"  ex- 
claimed the  Colonel,  in  a  tone  of  vexation,  "  Silvia  has 
got  a  jealous  freak  in  her  head,  and  will  not  rest  till  it 
is  satisfied.  Well,  sister,  are  you  content  ?" 

"  Miss  Rivers  has  not  entirely  answered  my  ques- 
tion, George.  I  am  not  content."  She  looked  inquir- 
ingly, and  with  hard  and  searching  eyes  towards  the 
indignant  girl. 

"Pshaw — the  thing  is  too  silly!  I  will  not  have  Miss 
Rivers  annoyed  further.  You  have  had  your  answer; 
/  am  satisfied,  and  you " 

"  Stay,  Colonel  Morgan,"  interrupted  Sybil,  as  he  led 
his  half-resisting  sister-in-law  towards  the  door, — "  I 
have  not,  as  Mrs.  Morton  says,  answered  her  whole 
inquiry.  I  will  do  so  now.  You  wish  to  know  if  Mr. 
John  Allandorph,"  she  pronounced  the  name  witri  an 
undisguised  contempt,  ''•  has  been  a  lover  of  mine — is  it 
not  so  ?" 


104  SYBIL     RIVERS. 

Mrs.  Morton  bowed  coldly.  She  seemed  to  be  un- 
conscious that  any  one  save  herself  had  ever  had  a 
right  to  feel  injured  since  the  creation  of  the  world. 

"This  is  my  answer.  Distinctly,  and  openly,  I  ac- 
knowledge that  lie  has,  and  that  I  rejected  his  proffer- 
ed hand  with  scorn  and  detestation  !" 

Mrs.  Morton  turned  very  pale,  and  exclaimed,  "  Sil- 
via must  hear  this — she  must  hear  this  herself!  No 
MORTON  shall  wed  with  a  man  whose  hand  has  been 
refused  by  a  ."  She  stopped,  for  Colonel  Mor- 
gan tightened  his  grasp  on  her  wrist,  till  it  fairly 
amounted  to  agony. 

"  Yes,  Silvia  must  hear  this  herself,  "he  repeated, 
with  some  bitterness.  "  By  heaven  she  shall  hear  it ; 
if  she  can  trample  on  the  feelings  of  another,  it  is  right 
her  own  were  wounded."  He  rang  the  bell. 

"  Tell  Miss  Morton  I  desire  to  see  her."  The  ser- 
vant flew  to  obey. 

In  a  few  moments  Silvia  entered.  Slie  was  look- 
ing miserably,  and  evidently  had  not  expected  to  be 
thus  suddenly  made  a  party  to  the  interview. 

"  Silvia,"  sternly  began  the  Colonel,  "  I  have  sent 
for  you,  that  you  might  hear  for  yourself  the  answer 
which  my  daughter's  governess,  heaven  bless  her ! 
has  made  to  you  through  your  mother.  I  have  not 
been  an  unobservant  spectator  of  the  manner  in  which 
you  have  seen  fit  to  annoy  and  humble  her  during 


SYBIL     RIVERS.  105 

your  visit  at  my  house,  and  it  is  with  regret  I  am 
compelled  to  inform  you,  what  you  might  for  yourself 
have  discovered  before  this,  that  your  aunt  and  my- 
self consider  Miss  Rivers  as  a  beloved  daughter; 
feeling  all  slights  offered  to  her  as  we  would  any  impos- 
ed on  your  cousin.  Sybil,  my  child,  speak  to  Miss 
Morton,  and  repeat  what  you  have  just  told  us,  con- 
cerning Mr.  Allandorph." 

But  Sybil  had  sunk  into  a  seat,  and  hidden  her  face. 
The  sight  of  Silvia's  pale,  sad  countenance,  drew  from 
her  pity,  instead  of  triumph,  and  she  almost  wept  as 
she  thought  of  the  pain  she  had  yet  to  cause  her,  by 
an  exposure  of  her  lover's  real  character. 

Scarcely  heeding  her  uncle's  reproof,  Silvia  went  to 
Miss  Rivers,  and  standing  before  her,  said  in  a  voice 
of  subdued  emotion — 

"  Tell  me,  tell  me  all — -for  the  sake  of  mercy,  oh, 
tell  me,  quickly !"  Her  slight  frame  trembled  like  a 
reed, — a  terrible  light  burned  in  her  eyes. 

Still  Sybil  spoke  not.  She  tried  in  vain  to  say  the 
words  that  hung  upon  her  lips ;  the  sight  of  the  an- 
guish already  writhing  in  that  fair  face,  smote  speech 
into  silence. 

Silvia's  steadfast  glance  grew  wildly,  fearfully 
anxious. 

With  a  feeble  moan,  reading  at  last  what  the  white 
lips  dared  not  utter,  she  fell  prostrate  on  the  floor,  and 

5 


106  SYBIL     RIVERS. 

happy  insensibility,   for   the   moment,    deadened   the 
struggle  of  love  and  pride. 

Then  it  was  that  Sybil  Rivers'  energies  returned ; 
she  knelt  to  assist  the  fainting  girl,  and  before  Colonel 
Morgan  or  her  mother  could  interfere,  had  placed  her 
gently  on  a  sofa. 

:  "Don't  touch  her!  go  away!"  vehemently  cried 
Mrs.  Morton,  springing  to,  and  bending  over  the  form 
of  her  unhappy  child,  with  weak  and  nervous  efforts, 
striving  to  revive  her  to  consciousness.  "  It  is  you 
who  have  killed  her !  go  away,  go  away  !" 
r  She  chafed  the  cold  hands,  and,  tremblingly,  at- 
tempted to  bathe  the  pale  face  with  water  from  a 
pitcher  on  the  table.  Very  soon  Silvia  revived,  and 
sat  up  on  the  lounge,  seemingly  as  wan  and  weak  as 
if  she  had  just  recovered  from  a  long  sickness. 

"  Mother,"  she  murmured,  faintly,  "  did  I  tell  you 
Ormon  had  come  ?" 

"  Ormon ! — "  cried  her  mother,  and  she  spoke  the  word 
as  though  worlds  of  love  and  hope  were  centered  in 
him  who  bore  the  name.  She  made  an  involuntary 
movement  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Yes,  go, — mother,  go !  He  wants  so  much  to  see 
you.  We  were  on  the  piazza  when  you  sent  for  me, 
and  I  could  scarcely  prevent  him  from  coming  to  you." 

Her  mother  hurriedly  kissed  and  left  her.  The 
moment  the  door  closed,  Silvia  Morton  became 


SYBIL     RIVERS.  107 

another  being;  her  person  grew  erect  with  resolu- 
tion. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  exclaimed,  addressing  herself  to 
Sybil,  "  you  must  tell  me  everything  !" 

Colonel  Morgan  stood  looking  on,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  profound  pity  at  her  feverish  eagerness. 

"  Can  you  hear  all,  Miss  Morton,"  softly  and  kindly 
asked  Sybil, — "can  you  hear  that  the  man  you  love  is 
unworthy  of  you — that  he  has  disgraced  his  holy  call- 
ing— that  he  is " 

"  Stop,  Sybil !"  interrupted  Colonel  Morgan,  "  do 
not  go  too  far !  You  are  excited.  It  is  useless  to  re- 
present John  Allandorph  as  other  than  a  Christian 
gentleman.  He  may  have  hidden  from  Silvia  some 

early,  trifling  courtships,  but come,  let  me  take 

you  to  your  room,  I  am  sure  you  are  not  well." 

"  Thank  heaven,  I  have  living  proof !"  was  Sybil's 
heartfelt  answer. 

And  she  repeated  that  old  tale  of  love,  and  trust, 
and  ruin.  She  told  them  of  the  village  maiden, 
happy  in  her  careless  life — in  her  youth  and  loveli- 
ness. She  told  them  of  the  beguiling  snare — of  that 
young  girl's  iron  faith  in  him  she  loved — of  her  fall, 
and  final  desertion,  and  how  she  was,  even  then, 
under  the  roof  that  sheltered  her  betrayer. 

With  one  great  sigh,  Silvia  Morton  heard  the  fear- 


108  SYBIL     RIVERS. 

ful  story,  and,  cold  as  a  statue,  neither  moved  nor 
spoke. 


"  Before  I  leave  your  kind  society,"  replied  Allan- 
dorph,  with  a  derisive  laugh  at  the  abhorrence  he  read 
in  the  confronting  faces  of  those  around  him, — "be- 
fore I  leave  you,  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  paying  a 
debt  of  gratitude  that  I  owe  this  charming  young  lady, 
Miss  Sybil  Rivers. 

"  Mrs.  Morton,  look  to  your  honors  !  For  sometime 
past,  this  sweet  and  unsophisticated  girl  has  favored 
your  son,"  and  he  cast  a  smile  at  Ormon  Morton,  who, 
standing  at  his  mother's  side,  eyed  him,  sternly,  "  with 
an  unsolicited  affection,  and,  if  her  schemes  succeed, 
will  probably  end  by  becoming  his  wife ;  like  myself, 
dear  madam,  considering  everything  fair  in  love  or 


war ! 


I" 


"  Dastard  !"  thundered  Ormon,  indignantly.  "  How 
DARE  you  utter  so  foul  a  falsehood  ?  Sybil  Rivers  is 
as  grandly  above  scheming  and  duplicity,  as  you,  poor 
wretch,  are  beneath  contempt." 

Undaunted,  Allandorph  pointed  boldly  to  the  shrink- 
ing form  of  Sybil  Rivers,  for  confirmation  of  his 
words. 

With  blazing  eyes,  Ormon  Morton  advanced,  mena- 
cingly, towards  him.  "  Out  of  my  sight,"  he  cried — 


SYBIL    RIVERS.  109 

"  quick,  or,  by  heaven,  I "  but  before  the  words 

were  fairly  uttered,  Allandorph  had  taken  instant  and 
cowardly  flight  through  the  open  casement ! 

All  eyes  were  now  turned  on  Sybil  Rivers,  who, 
with  her  proud  face  buried  in  her  hands,  sat,  bent  and 
trembling,  in  her  terrible  humiliation. 

Ormon  Morton  read  the  secret  of  her  heart  at  a 
glance.  His  face  lit  up  like  sunshine,  as  he  came  be- 
side her,  and  said,  in  a  low,  but  audible  voice — 

"  Sybil — dear  Miss  Rivers."  The  bowed  head  stir- 
ed  not.  "Sybil,"  (with  suppressed  tenderness,)  "is 
this — can  this  be  ?  Have  we  both  been  mistaken  all 
these  weary  years  ?  Am  I  returned  from  my  distant 
pilgrimage,  to  find  that  mine,  which  I  thought 
another's  when  I  went  away  ?" 

There  was  a  sudden  and  convulsive  movement  of 
the  hands,  but  that  was  all. 

It  was  enough  ! 

"  Oh,  Sybil !"  he  passionately  proceeded, — "  answer 
me !  Before  heaven,  and  these  witnesses,  I  ask, 
solemnly,  if  you  will  be  my  wife, — the  good  influence, 
the  blessedness  of  all  my  days  ?" 

Still  she  spoke  not.  But  even  silence  is  eloquent—- 
and Ormon  Morton  was  content. 


LORRAINE  GORDON 


I 
A   BIOGRAPHY. 


"  LOVE  was  to  his  impassioned  soul, 

Not  as  with  others,  a  mere  part 
Of  its  existence — but  the  whole, 

The  very  life-breath  of  his  heart !" 

MOORE. 

"  For  suffering  hath  been  made  sublime, 

And  souls  that  lived,  and  died  alone, 
Have  left  an  echo  for  all  time." 

"  DEAD  !  dead  !  oh,  mother ! — did  you  say  DEAD  ?" 

"  Yes,  Lorraine — yes.  Mora  has  gone  home  at 
last.  From  shame  and  poverty,  from  injury  and  in- 
sult, she  is  freed  forever !" 

The  young  man  leaned  his  head  upon  the  small 
table  before  him,  and  big  tears  rolled  from  his  eyes. 

His  dress  was  that  of  a  sailor.  On  the  floor  lay  a 
little  bundle  of  clothing,  dashed  down  with  his  tarpau- 
lin, in  the  first  eagerness  of  return.  His  face  was 
dark  and  sun-burned,  but  a  frank,  manly  face  withal. 

"Mother?" 

"  Lorraine,  my  dear  son,"  she  answered,  and  the 


112  LORRAINE     GORDON. 

pathos,  the  exquisite  consolation  of  her  tone  softened 
his  deep  sorrow. 

"Where  is  Mora  buried — where  does  she  sleep, 
mother  ?" 

Without  answering,  the  old  lady  took  her  sun-bon- 
net from  its  peg,  in  the  rough,  white-washed  wall,  and 
led  the  way  across  the  fields  that  were  at  the  rear  of 
the  house. 

Very  soon  they  reached  the  spot. 

It  was  a  lowly  green  mound,  without  monument  or 
stone.  A  wild,  straggling  grape-vine  had  crept  thick- 
ly over  it.  Everything  around  was  calm  and  still ;  not 
even  an  echo  disturbed  the  holy  silence  of  the  place. 

With  a  burst  of  unchecked  grief,  the  young  man 
knelt  over  his  sister's  grave,  and  looking  up  to  heaven, 
exclaimed,  wildly — 

"  So  best, — so  best, — for  God  is  mercy !" 

His  mother  lifted  up  her  shrivelled  hands  to  heaven, 
with  the  air  and  gesture  of  a  Prophetess  of  olden 
times,  and  cried,  in  a  voice  of  heart-wrung  bitterness — 

"  This,  Lorraine,  is  the  resting-place  of  a  GORDON. 
This  base,  unmarked  sod,  covers  a  descendant  of  that 
noble  house !" 

Her  grey  hairs  fluttered  around  her  brow,  as,  stand- 
ing there,  in  agonized  and  severe  majesty,  she  clasped 
her  son's  hands  and  wept.  Lorraine's  sorrowing  face 
hardened  like  a  rock  as  he  beheld  her  grief,  and  he 


LORRAINE     GORDON.  113 

thought  of  the  matchless  wrongs  that  had  brought 
them  to  this  low  estate. 

Defrauded  of  his  inheritance — brought  to  poverty 
and  exile  by  another's  sin  ! 

"  Lorraine,"  said  his  feeble,  old  mother,  putting 
aside  his  hand,  and  drawing  herself  erect.  "  Lorraine, 
I  do  not  advocate  revenge, — far  from  it ;  but  Gordon- 
dale  must  not  remain  the  property  of  Gilbert  Wold. 
Swear  to  me — promise  it  here,  over  your  dead  sister's 
grave,  that  you  will  use,  during  your  life,  all  honest 
means  to  regain  your  birth-right ;  swear  to  me,  that 
before  you  die,  you  will  be  master  of  Gordondale,  as 
your  fathers  have  been  !" 

The  young  sailor  bent  forward,  till  his  lips  reverent- 
ly touched  the  turf  over  that  humble  grave,  and  said, 
solemnly — 

"  Mother — I  swear  it !" 


THE  woods,  the  dim  old  woods,  are  they  not  beauti- 
ful ?  Does  not  the  music  of  their  sea  of  leaves  come 
to  the  spirit  with  the  balm  of  a  holy  hymn  ?  Is  not 
their  thick,  fragrant  shade,  the  embodiment  of  peace, 
and  their  wild  paths,  one  mass  of  tangled  beauty  ? 

The  grand  old  woods  !  they  have  brought  more  reli- 


5* 


114  LORRAINE     GORDON. 

gion  into  the  heart  of  man,  than  all  the  elaborate  ser- 
mons ever  written  ! 

It  was  in  a  small  cottage,  in  the  edge  of  a  wood,  a 
cottage  almost  ready  to  fall  into  ruin,  and  scarcely 
keeping  out  the  wind  and  rain,  that  Lorraine  Gordon 
lived  for  years  after  the  death  of  his  broken-hearted 
mother, — lived  a  lonely  and  miserable  man,  working 
and  toiling,  grudging  himself  the  common  necessaries 
of  life,  and  shut  completely  from  the  companionship  of 
his  fellow-creatures.  No  rest,  no  relaxation,  no  friend- 
ships did  he  ever  allow  himself,  lest  they  might  take 
from  his  zeal  in  the  one  great  object  of  his  labor — the 
redemption  of  his  lawful  inheritance  from  the  hands  of 
a  stranger. 

Years  of  self-denial,  of  poverty  and  obscurity,  faded 
slowly  away. 

Temptation  came  to  him  to  turn  aside  from  the 
path  he  had  marked  out  for  himself,  and  very  painful 
was  the  effort  to  resist  it.  He  was  human — he  could 
not  altogether  steel  himself  to  the  promptings  of  na- 
ture. 

During  his  position  as  overseer  of  a  neighboring 
factory,  which  station  had  been  given  him  immediate- 
ly after  his  mother's  death  by  some  of  his  father's  for- 
mer friends,  Lorraine  saw,  and  loved,  a  young  girl, 
called  Agnes  Hill.  She  was  poor,  like  himself, — like 
himself  had  once  lived  in  circumstances  better  suited 


LORRAINE     GORDON.  115 

to  her  innate  refinement.  She  worked  at  one  of  the 
looms,  in  order  to  support  a  bed-ridden  father  and 
sick  mother,  and  thus  it  was  they  met. 

Notwithstanding  Lorraine's  pride  in  his  family 
name,  he  loved,  with  all  the  strength  of  his  manly  soul, 
this  obscure  factory  girl.  Many  a  conflict  did  that 
lonely  hut  in  the  wood  witness,  between  this  passion, 
and  the  memory  of  his  vow  over  Mora's  grave.  His 
promise  could  not  be  as  soon  fulfilled,  perhaps  it  never 
would  be,  if  the  care  of  a  wife  and  family  came  be- 
tween him  and  it ;  the  living  love,  and  the  trust  with 
the  dead,  could  not  both  exist  together ;  and,  oh !  the 
heart-burning  the  knowledge  gave  him  ! 

In  the  solitude  of  his  forest  home  he  had  little  else 
to  think  of  but  his  hopeless  attachment,  and  the 
solemn  vow  which  he  had  made  years  before,  and 
which,  alas !  he  already  deplored.  What  was  the 
restored  grandeur  of  the  house  of  the  dead  Gordons, 
to  the  happiness,  or  the  life-long  misery  of  its  only 
survivor  ? 

He  asked  himself  this  again  and  again,  and  yet, 
when  his  heart  prompted  him  to  follow  its  more 
natural  dictates,  his  conscience  as  thrillingly  asserted 
its  sway. 

He  had  promised  it,  and  to  one  who  was  now  an 
angel  in  God's  heaven ! 


116  LORRAINE     GORDON. 

So,  for  years  he  lived ;  struggling  forever  with  that 
earnest,  beautiful  passion,  and  his  stern  duty. 

Time  began  to  silver  his  head  and  sear  his  heart. 
He  became  in  reality,  what,  long  before,  men,  ignorant 
of  the  motives  of  his  secluded  existence  had  believed 
him  to  be — a  misanthrope.  He  hated  the  sight  of  all 
human  faces,  save  one.  As  soon  as  the  business  of 
the  day  was  over,  he  walked  back  to  his  comfortless 
den,  and  in  silence  and  solitude  brooded  over  his  still 
precious  love,  or  counted  up  his  miser  store  of  riches. 
Fortune  had  favored  him.  By  well  thought-of  specu- 
lations, in  many  and  various  departments  of  the  busi- 
ness world,  the  little  savings  which  he  had  been  years 
accumulating,  were  bringing  in  princely  interest.  In 
a  few  years  more,  he  hoped  to  call  Gordondale  his  own, 
by  the  right  of  lawful  purchase,  for  the  comet-like 
course  of  Gilbert  Wold,  the  forger  of  his  father's  receiv- 
ed will,  was  ended.  He  was  dead  and  gone !  and  the 
property  he  had  possessed  by  fraud  was  now  offered  for 
sale. 

Agnes  Hill  was  still  unmarried.  Her  delicate  love- 
liness had  grown  somewhat  wan  and  faded ;  but  to 
Lorraine  Gordon  she  was  still  an  idol  of  earthly  affec- 
tion. The  beauty  of  her  lofty  character ;  her  sacri- 
fices for,  and  unswerving  devotion  to  her  parents,  pre- 
served ever  fresh,  ever  pure,  the  passion  her  girlhood 
had  awakened  in  his  breast. 


LORRAINE     GORDON.  117 

He  had  never  spoken  to  her  of  his  love.  He  did 
not  know  that  she  was  aware  of  its  existence ;  he 
never  dreamed  that  all  those  years  had  passed  as  bit- 
terly to  her  as  to  himself. 

How.  should  he  ?  What  did  he  know  of  the  keen 
love-eyes  of  woman,  when  the  hopes  of  her  life  are  at 
stake  ?  She  had  read  his  secret  love  for  years,  and, 
with  something  like  wounded  pride  at  the  impotency 
of  her  own  power,  beheld  the  result  of  the  contest 
between  duty  and  passion. 

At  length  the  time  came,  when  Lorraine  Gordon 
entered  into  negotiations  for  the  purchase  of  his  noble 
birthplace,  now  neglected  and  sinking  into  ruin. 

With  a  proud  hand  he  signed  over  the  hardly  earn- 
ed fortune  of  a  life-time,  and  found  himself  the  master 
of  far-away  Gordondale. 

Triumphant  happiness  overflowed  his  spirit,  as,  in 
his  old  age,  he  felt  himself  free  to  gather  up,  as  he 
would,  the  domestic  love  he  so  coveted. 

Repeating  to  himself  the  words,  ''I  am  master  of 
Gordondale,"  as  though  the  sound  were  delicious 
music,  for  the  first  time  in  his  Hfe  he  bent  his  steps  to- 
wards the  humble  home  of  Agnes  Hill. 

It  was  an  humble  and  poor  little  cottage,  and,  unlike 
his  own,  was  situated  in  the  very  heart  of  active  life, 
near  the  noisy,  dingy  factory,  where  the  worn  woman's 
youth  had  wasted  away. 


118  LORRAINE     GORDON. 

He  rapped,  impatiently,  and  before  long  the  door 
was  opened  by  Agnes  Hill  herself.  She  looked  sur- 
prised, but  asked  him  very  gently  to  enter.  He  shook 
the  white  sand  from  his  feet,  came  in,  and  sat  beside 
her  at  the  cheerful  hearth,  made  so  by  her  own  in- 
dustry. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room,  propped  up  with  pillows, 
half-lying,  half-sitting  in  a  large  chair,  he  beheld  her 
childish  old  mother.  Long  before,  her  father  had 
sunk  to  his  eternal  rest,  and  slept  under  the  green 
grass  of  a  peaceful  grave. 

Lorraine  Gordon  had  thought,  in  the  innocence  of 
his  long  crushed  heart,  that  it  would  be  an  easy  thing 
to  tell  Agnes  Hill  of  his  love.  But  something,  he 
knew  not  what,  chained  his  speech ;  and  although  the 
words  burned  and  battled  for  utterance,  they  refused 
to  come  from  their  terrible  chaos  when  he  would  have 
had  it  so. 

Agnes,  in  her  quiet,  composed  way,  tried  to  talk 
to  him  on  subjects  interesting  to  both.  She  spoke  of 
the  improved  prospects  of  factory  laborers,  and  of  the 
advantages  many  had  reaped  from  his  own  manly  kind- 
ness during  the  years  that  he  had  been  overseer. 

At  last,  with  desperate,  nervous  effort,  Lorraine 
Gordon  took  her  toil-worn  hand  in  his,  and  said  sim- 
ply- 

"  Agnes,  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you !" 


LORRAINE     GORDON.  119 

And  Agnes  slowly  withdrew  her  hand,  and  said  in  a 
low,  troubled  voice — 

"I  am  sorry." 

Lorraine  Gordon  was  almost  blinded  by  the  bewil- 
derment those  few  words  caused  him,  the  idea  of  rejec- 
tion having  never  entered  his  imagination.  "  Have  I 
loved  you  all  my  manhood,  to  find  it  vain  at  last  ?"  he 
questioned  bitterly.  "  Have  I  lived  on  the  mere  hope 
of  your  affection  so  many  years  for  nothing,  Agnes  ? 
Do  you  not,  oh !  can  you  not  love  me  ?" 

Agnes  Hill  gave  him  a  look  of  proud  sorrow  as  she 
answered — 

"  Lorraine  Gordon,  you  have  come  too  late !  I  ac- 
knowledge that  I  once  loved  you — long  ago.  You 
were  more  to  me  than  aught  else  on  earth — my  whole 
being  ached  for  your  love !  Pride  has  conquered  mine 
— you  are  too  late  /" 

"  Oh !  Agnes,  may  not  years  of  devotion  win  it 
again  ?  I  barred  my  heart  to  you  that  I  might  re- 
deem, by  rigid  economy,  the  ancient  dwelling  of  my 
ancestors.  Thank  heaven,  Gordondale  is  mine  at  last ! 
Agnes,  you  are  the  only  woman  worthy  to  be  its  mis- 
tress ;  oh !  tell  me  you  will  try  to  love  its  master !" 

But  that  wild  temptation  of  wealth  and  luxury  for 
herself  and  dying  mother,  shook  not  the  pride  of  the 
still  beautiful  Agnes  Hill. 


120  LORRAINE     GORDON. 

She  threw  back  her  curling  brown  hair,  and  repeat- 
ed those,  to  him,  terrible  words — 

''  Lorraine  Gordon,  you  are  too  late  /" 
He  heard  his  fate,  and  left  her. 


IT  was  the  entrance  of  Gordondale. 

The  tiny  stone  lodge  lifted  up  its  roof  from  a  wil- 
derness of  ivy  and  other  climbing  vines.  It  appeared 
the  same  as  ever,  and  there  came  out  to  welcome  the 
new  master  the  same  old  servant  who  had  dwelt  there 
with  his  family  in  by-gone  times. 

Taking  the  keys  from  the  venerable  gate-keeper's 
trembling  hands,  Lorraine  passed  up  the  broad  avenues 
alone,  and  on  foot.  A  mile  or  so  brought  him  to  the 
home  of  his  boyhood. 

Change  had  left  many  direful  traces.  One  of  the 
wings  was  fallen  into  decay,  and  the  main  building  it- 
self looked  as  though  the  storm  king  held  his  orgies 
over  it.  Neglect  and  extravagant  usage  were  visible 
everywhere.  The  once  well-kept  garden  was  a  waste, 
and  many  a  stately  tree  had  disappeared ;  rank  weeds 
choked  up  the  paths;  all  was  desolation  wherever  the 
eyes  turned. 

Applying  the  key,  the  old  man  entered  the  house. 
Through  all  those  antique  rooms  he  hurried  in  eager 


LORRAINE     GORDON.  121 

excitement,  but,  alas !  it  was  not  the  Gordondale  of  his 
youth.  The  only  thing  that  served  to  recall  the  old, 
old  days,  was  a  painting  of  his  mother,  hanging  in  its  ac- 
customed place  on  the  walls  of  the  dining-room.  He 
sank  into  a  seat  before  it,  and  leaning  his  face  on  his 
clasped  hands,  wept  tears  of  bitter  and  two-fold  disap- 
pointment. 

When  the  old  servant  came  to  seek  him,  he  found 
him  sitting  there,  cold  and  dead  ! 

Following  the  beckonings  of  angel  memories,  the 
soul  of  LORRAINE  GORDON  had  defied  forever  the  grasp 
of  earthly  disaster. 


FEAGMENT  OF  AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


Worcester  : —  *  *  *  I  will  unclasp  a  secret  book, 

And  to  your  quick-conceiving  discontents 
I'll  read  you  matter,  deep  and  dangerous  ; 
As  full  of  peril  and  advent'rous  spirit 
As  to  o'erwalk  a  current  roaring  loud, 
On  the  unsteadfast  footing  of  a  spear. 

HENRY   IV. 

Jqffier  : — There's  not  a  wretch  that  lives  on  common  charity, 
But's  happier  than  me. 

VENICE  PRESERTED. 

GOD  gave  me  an  intellect  worthy  of  an  angel,  and 
I  have  made  it  the  slave  of  demons. 

No  longer  stifling  the  voice  within,  that  calls  in 
agony  for 'utterance,  I  will  confess,  to  this  silent  paper 
a  deed  that  never  yet  was  surpassed  in  wickedness 
among  men. 

I  am  the  son  of  well-circumstanced  parents.  I  was 
bred  for  the  profession  in  which  my  father  made  his 


124        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

fortune — the  law,  because  my  oratorical  genius  seemed 
to  point  that  way. 

Unfortunately  for  me,  however,  I  had  scarcely  passed 
my  final  examination,  when  my  mother's  only  brother, 
Colonel  Josiah  Oliver,  publicly  proclaimed  me  his  heir, 
and  sent  for  me  to  reside  permanently  with  him  at  the 
Cordoza  estates,  which,  with  a  portion  of  his  vast  wealth' 
he  had  just  purchased  in  South  America.  I  bade  an 
eternal  farewell  to  my  profession,  and  left  New- York 

in  the  year .  With  the  blessings  of  my  kind  old 

father  and  my  grey-haired  mother  still  fresh  upon  me, 
I  reached  my  destination. 

My  uncle  I  had  never  seen.  I  found  him  to  be  an 
old  man,  somewhat  roue  in  appearance,  but  still  en- 
joying a  hale  decline  of  life.  He  received  me  kindly, 
settled  upon  me  during  his  existence  an  annuity  that 
fairly  dazzled  me  with  its  amplitude,  only  exacting  in 
return  the  attentions  due  from  youth  to  an  unwedded 
and  childless  age. 

The  Castle  of  Cordoza  was  the  pride  and  boast  of 
the  small  town  at  the  entrance  of  which  it  stood. 

It  was  built  on  a  massive  ledge  of  rocks — a  magni- 
ficently terrible  precipice,  that  overhangs  the  lovely, 
but  comparatively  unknown,  inland  lake,  Aro,  so-called 
from  the  perfect  circle  it  described.  The  towering 
mountains  at  whose  feet  the  castle  lay,  gave  it  majes- 
tic shelter  from  the  elements,  and  presented  to  the 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        125 

traveller  lingering  on  the  spot,  a  vision  of  such  wild 
and  fantastic  beauty,  that  the  senses  were  oppressed 
with  its  luxuriance.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
these  mountains  extended,  crowned  with  clouds  and 
savagely  picturesque  foliage,  (who  does  not  know  the 
rich  character  of  the  South  American  forests  ?)  until, 
fading  in  the  distance,  they  melted  into  space.  Civili- 
zation had  neither  destroyed  the  romantic  langour  that 
hovered  over  these  beautiful'  tropical  regions,  nor  ob- 
literated the  old-time  landmarks,  the  ruins  of  ancient 
palaces  and  fanes,  relics  of  a  race  of  people  that  has 
passed  away  forever. 

Surrounded  by  everything  that  could  stimulate  the 
imagination,  and  triumphantly  elevate  the  spirit  over 
its  clay,  I  lost  my  inordinate  love  of  mere  earthly  en- 
joyments, and  revelled,  for  the  time  being,  in  a  new 
world. 

It  was  then,  that,  risen  above  my  natural  self,  I  first 
saw  Veronica  Lola,  a  young  girl,  the  grandchild  on  her 
father's  side  of  a  tenant  of  my  uncle's. 

Riding  one  day  along  an  exquisitely  romantic  road, 
on  the  estate  that  was  soon  to  be  my  own,  in  passing  a 
plain  and  rather  poor  cabana,  I  was  startled  by  hearing 
issuing  from  it,  a  mellow  female  voice,  chanting  in  Span- 
ish, a  hymn  to  the  Virgin.  It  was  a  beautiful  little  trifle, 
such  as  should  only  flow  from  the  lips  (as  it  did  then) 
at  the  dusky  opening  of  evening.  With  delicacy,  and 


126        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

yet  great  precision  of  style,  the  voice  sang  on,  while 
I,  unseen,  listened  to  the  very  close  of  the  concluding 
crescendo  and  diminuendo.  Curiosity  then  moved  me 
to  look  upon  this  syren  who  charmed  mortals  while 
worshipping  Immortality. 

I  dismounted,  and  had  placed  my  hand  on  the  latch 
of  the  gate,  when  I  saw  a  young  girl,  seated,  uncon- 
scious of  my  approach,  at  one  of  the  open  windows. 

Although  scarcely  more  than  the  earliest  years  of 
womanhood  had  passed  over  her  head,  the  rich,  regal 
type  of  her  appearance  was  that  of  maturity. 

She  was  not  actually  beautiful ;  yet  there  was  that 
in  her  face  that  compelled  admiration — a  weird 
spiritual  gleam  of  something  higher  and  holier  than 
physical  perfection,  although  that  of  itself  is  both  high 
and  holy. 

Her  eyes  were  dark  and  of  an  imploring  expression, 
like  those  of  the  giraffe,  the  most  beautiful  and  grace- 
ful of  brute  animals  ;  her  long  hair  was  straight  as 
an  Indian's,  and  her  features,  half  those  of  a  Madonna, 
half  those  of  the  noble  woman ;  a  peculiar  purity  of 
complexion  adding  greatly  to  their  unearthly  radiance. 

At  any  other  time  than  that,  I  should  have  turned 
from  looking  on  such  a  face  with  a  feeling  of  jmmea- 
surable  relief;  but,  as  I  have  said,  I  was  changed. 
The  pitiful  passions  that  hitherto  had  rebelled  against 
companionship  with,  because  antagonistic  to,  beings 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.         127 

like  Veronica,  then  slept  within  me,  and,  alas !  but  to 
display  redoubled  vigor  and  vitality  on  awakening. 

I  am  no  Fatalist.  I  do  not  attempt  to  veil  the 
atrocity  of  my  crimes  under  the  poor  screen  such  a 
creed  affords.  I  believe  that  the  WILL  of  man  is  his 
destiny !  His  fate  is  in  his  own  hands.  It  is  in  his 
power  to  shape  his  course  for  an  eternal  heaven  or  an 
eternal  hell ! 

I  will  not  linger  over  the  introduction  that  I  con- 
trived  to  win,   in  the    home    of  Veronica's   grand- 
parents; nor  state  more  than  the  simple  fact,  that 
loved  and  was  beloved. 

Every  time  that  I  beheld  this  young  girl,  my  passion 
for  her  increased ;  until  the  wildest  idolatry  of  image- 
worshippers  was  not  more  violent  or  more  impious 
than  my  own.. 

******* 

The  time  came  when  I  felt  it  necessary  to  speak  to 
my  uncle  Oliver  on  the  subject  of  my  betrothal  to 
this  young  Spanish  rustica,  the  obscurity  of  whose 
origin  I  instinctively  felt  would  cause  him  much  vexa- 
tious regret  at  my  choice.  Prepared  as  I  naturally 
was  for  an  unreasonable  display  of  anger,  I  confess  I 
did  not  expect  the  outburst  of  violence,  the  tempest 
of  fury,  that  succeeded  the  avowal  of  my  love.  My 
uncle  turned  perfectly  livid  with  rage.  He  stamped, 
he  swore,  he  cursed  all  the  women  that  ever  were 


128        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

born ;  and  vowed  that  my  folly,  as  he  termed  it,  had 
made  me  only  worthy  to  be  classed  among  them. 
Then  suddenly  his  wrath  subsided,  and  a  suppressed, 
but  even  more  ominous  displeasure  took  its  place. 
His  manner  reminded  me  of  the  quietness  of  a  hungry 
and  caged  lion.  "  Go,  marry  this  wretched  plebeian," 
he  said,  calmly.  "Go,  marry  her,  if  you  will;  but, 
remember,  you  do  so  at  the  penalty  of  your  entire  in- 
heritance !  Go,  poor  fool ;  and  may  your  children 
wring  your  heart,  as  you  have  wrung  mine !  May 
they  live  to  curse  you,  and  the  day  that  gave  them 
being !  Go !" 

I  was  too  thunder-stricken  at  the  information  con- 
tained in  this  speech,  to  utter  a  word,  and  my  uncle 
proceeded — 

"  Choose  between  this  girl  and  me !  There  is 
boundless  wealth  and  power  on  the  one  side — a  fickle 
woman,  poverty,  and  servile  labor,  on  the  other."  He 
paused,  then  added,  with  a  slightly  softened  voice — 

"  Farlie,  listen  to  me.  I  say  this  for  your  eternal 
good.  /,  too,  have  loved."  He  strode  the  room  with 
gigantic  strides.  "  I  loved  a  creature,  young  and 
beautiful  as  thil  peasant  girl.  Unlike  your  case,  our 
rank  in  life  was  equal.  We  were  poor  alike ;  and  in 
blind  infatuation,  I  swore  to  enrich  myself  for  her  sake. 
Love !  that  was  no  word  to  express  my  devotion  to 
her,  my  faith  in  her  integrity.  I  adored  her — J  wor- 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        129 

shipped  her,  like, — like," — he  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a 
comparison,  "  like  devils  in  hell  worshipping  heaven. 
I  staked  my  all  upon  her,  and, — and  I  LOST  ! 

"  I  came  to  South  America,  freighted  with  more 
than  wealth  in  the  treasure  of  her  love.  I  went  back 
to  her,  the  possessor  of  almost  fabulous  riches,  acquir- 
ed for  her  sake  alone,  and  found  her, — good  God !  not 
even  the  wife  of  my  rival !" 

Iron-nerved  as  I  had  always  deemed  my  uncle 
Oliver  to  be,  he  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears.  There 
was  a  long  pause. 

"  From  that  moment,  the  sight  of  a  woman  became 
repulsive  to  me — from  that  moment,  I  vowed  myself 
to  a  never-ending  celibacy. 

"  Farlie  Gardener,  Veronica  Lola  is  the  daughter  of 
that  woman,  lon<y  since  dead  !  I  never  knew  it  until 
a  few  days  ago.  TPor  her  mother's  sake,  I  HATE  her. 
Marry  her, — (she  inherits  her  mother's  face,  and  doubt- 
less carries  as  pure  a  conscience,  as  changeable  a  taste,) 
— marry  her,  and,  by  heaven,  you  will  do  so,  a  beggar  ! 
I  desire  to  save  you,  Farlie,  from  the  fate  that  has  been 
mine — I  desire  to  save  you  from  much  that  is  hard 
and  bitter  to  endure.  This  girl  will  deceive  you,  as 
her  mother  deceived  me  before  her.  Forget  her, 
daughter  as  she  is  of  a  false  and  unholy  woman — for- 
get "  but  I  heard  him  no  farther.  I  flung  myself 

6 


130        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

from  the  room — I  mounted  my  horse,  and  rode  as  for 
life  and  death  to  Veronica. 

The  little  good  in  my  disposition  was  aroused.  I 
revealed  my  situation  to  my  betrothed,  and  offered  to 
sacrifice  everything — my  prospects — my  expected  in- 
heritance, all  for  her !  I  implored  her  to  be  my  wife, 
and  narrowly  I  watched  her  open  and  changeful  face, 
to  see  the  effect  my  words  produced.  A  doubt  had 
entered  my  mind,  (it  had  arisen  from  my  uncle's 
words,)  and  I  longed  to  know,  if  wealth  or  poverty 
had  aught  of  influence  over  her  love. 

I  had  found  her  with  her  grandfather  in  their  pretty 
garden,  he  busy  with  his  spade,  she  weaving,  careless- 
ly, a  garland  of  flowers ;  not  flowers  like  our  own 
palely  beautiful  northern  ones,  but  bright  tropical 

blossoms,  luxuriant  in  richness  of  color  and  shape,  re- 

s 
minding  one  of  the  face  of  a  woman  grown  insolent 

with  too  great  loveliness. 

Veronica  heard  me  as  though  she  were  in  a  dream. 
Her  eyes  dimmed. 

"  We  will  wait,  Farlie — we  will  wait,"  she  said. 
"  Did  you  think  that  I  could  accept  a  sacrifice  from 
you  like  this?  Did  you  think  me  capable  of  ruining 
you,  Farlie  ?  We  will  wait,  and  some  happy  day  your 
uncle  may  relent — then,  and  only  then,  shall  I  become 
your  wife  I" 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        131 

So  I  returned  to  the  Castle  of  Cordoza  as  its  heir 
still. 

I  promised  my  uncle  all  he  required  of  me,  regard- 
ing Veronica ;  because  this  was  the  sole  condition  on 
which  I  could  be  restored  to  his  favor — /  swore  never 
to  make  her  my  wife  ! 

From  that  moment  a  demon  took  possession  of  me. 
From  that  moment  I  plotted  how  to  retain  both 
Veronica  and  my  inheritance  ! 

My  oath,  never  to  marry  her,  I  regarded  as  lightly 
as  if  it  had  not  been  spoken.  Its  existence  did  not 
annoy  me.  I  was  prepared  to  set  it  at  defiance  at 
any  hour,  when  I  could  do  so  without  injuring  my- 
self. 

The  selfishness  of  my  nature  broke  out  afresh.  I 
was  inexpressibly  thankful  that  Veronica  had  resisted 
my  alarmed  and  passionate  appeal  for  her  hand.  I 
now  felt  that  I  would  rather  relinquish  even  that,  than 
cast  away  from  me  my  uncle's  princely  fortune. 

Relinquish  her  hand  only;  fiend  that  I  was,  I  never 
dreamed  of  relinquishing  Veronica  ! 

A  thousand  temptations  assailed  me.  I  longed  for 
my  uncle's  death,  as  the  only  release  from  my  position. 
I  even  plotted  against  his  life ;  but  an  innate  and  in- 
explicable fear  of  retribution  prevented  the  accom- 
plishment of  my  designs. 
My  inhuman  desire  was  soon  and  suddenly  gratified. 


132        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

It  was  not  many  months  before  the  Angel  of  Death 
added  the  soul  of  the  Lord  of  Cordoza  to  those 
already  passed  away  to  the  great  Silent  Land. 

What  is  this  thing  that  men  name  soul  ?  We  can- 
not see  it  when  it  parts  from  the  body,  although  we 
behold  the  physical  agony  caused  by  the  solemn  sepa- 
ration. Its  destiny  is,  like  itself,  a  fearful  mystery — a 
mystery  that  must  remain  such  as  long  as  the  world 
exists. 


IN  compliance  with  my  uncle's  desire,  I  had  ceased 
visiting  at  the  humble  cottage  of  Veronica's  grand- 
parents. This  did  not  prevent,  however,  frequent  in- 
terviews in  the  ancient  forest  that,  made  the  glory  of 
the  estate.  As  yet,  I  had  not  dared  to  say  aught  that 
her  high-minded  purity  could  resent;  and  now  that 
my  uncle's  death  removed  the  only  obstacle  to  my 
marriage,  I  went  again  to  the  cottage,  and  openly  de- 
manded the  hand  of  Veronica  of  her  parents. 

It  was  granted  me,  together  with  the  blessing  of  the 
aged  couple,  who,  however,  did  not  accord  me  the 
favor  I  asked,  without  first  revealing  what  they  little 
thought  I  already  knew  of  Veronica's  birth,  nobly  giv- 
ing me  opportunity  to  retract  my  proposal. 


FRAGMENT     OP     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        133 

My  uncle's  funeral  took  place  on  the  fifth  of  Sep- 
tember, attended  with  much  pomp  and  splendour.  On 
the  tenth  it  was  decided  that  we  were  to  be  quietly 
married  by  the  sacerdote  of  an  adjacent  chapel. 

The  morning  of  the  tenth  arrived.  An  unaccounta- 
ble foreboding  hovered  over  me  as,  ordering  the  most 
lovely  of  bridal  bouquets  from  the  castle  gardeners,  I 
set  out  for  the  cottage.  At  the  little  gate  over  which 
I  had  leaned  when  beholding  Veronica  for  the  first 
time,  she  came  to  meet  me  then,  attired  very  simply 
for  the  occasion  in  a  thin,  white  robe. 

"  Father  Andrae  is  come,  and  wishes  to  see  you 
privately  before  the  ceremony,"  she  said,  as  I  pressed 
my  lips  to  her  blushing  forehead,  and  presented  my 
flowers. 

"  Privately," — the  word  rang  in  my  ears  disagreea- 
bly. What  private  message  could  Father  Andrae  have 
to  tell  me  ?  I  had  never  even  seen  him,  and  knew 
nothing  more  of  him  than  that,  at  Veronica's  request, 
his  were  to  be  the  lips  that  gave  me  power  over  her 
future  life. 

Arm  in  arm  we  passed  up  the  garden  walk  to  the 
veranda,  through  a  window  opening  upon  which,  I  be- 
held a  man  in  priestly  attire.  I  was  silent  and  ab- 
stracted. Veronica  seemed  pained  by  this,  and  said 
fondly,  but  reproachfully — 

"  Do  you  regret,  Farlie,  that  I  am  not  more  worthy 


134         FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

of  your  castled  home  ?  Before  it  is  too  late,  do  you 
repent  that  you  have  chosen  me  ?  The  obscure,  the 
low-born  peasant  is  indeed  no  mate  for  one  like  you." 

Before  I  could  answer,  we  were  joined  by  Father 
Andrea.  With  a  brief  and  strangely  imperative  ges- 
ture, he  drew  me  aside.  Veronica  left  us. 

"  Do  you  love  this  girl  ?"  he  inquired,  following  her 
form  with  his  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?"  I  demanded,  impatiently. 
"  Are  you  not  here  to  make  us  one  ?  Does  not  the 
disparity  in  our  station  bespeak,  my  love  ?" 

Father  Andrae  smiled.  It  was  a  cold,  much-express- 
ing, half-sneering  smile. 

"  Station  !"  he  repeated  slowly,  "  aye,  it  is  of  that 
very  station  I  would  speak.  I  know  a  secret,  Senor, 
that  involves  both  that  boasted  station  and  your  lately 
acquired  wealth.  I  know  a  secret  that  will  blast  you 
forever,  did  I  but  withhold  it  till  to-morrow.  Now 
tell  me,  solemnly,  for  I  would  know — do  you,  or  do 
you  not,  love  this  good  and  sweet  girl  ?" 

"  As  my  life,"  I  answered,  "  and  by  all  that's  holy, 
before  night  she  shall  be  my  wife !" 

"  I  .doubt  it,"  sneered  Father  Andrae,  watching  me 
curiously. 

"  Sir,"  I  cried  angrily,  "  you  were  not  sent  here  for 
trifling.  Say  what  you  have  to  say,  and  let  the  cere  - 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.         135 

mony  begin ;  let  me  assure  you,  that  all  idle  boasts  will 
be  treated  as  they  deserve." 

"  I  forgot,"  said  the  sacerdots,  bowing  with  mock 
reverence,  "  I  forgot  that  I  spoke  to  the  heir  of  Cor- 
doza  ;"  and  again  he  smiled  disdainfully. 

"  Senor,"  he  continued,  "  do  you  know  whether  your 
late  uncle  made  a  will  just  before  his  sudden  death  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  I,  greatly  relieved,  for,  uncon- 
sciously, his  words  had  filled  me  with  alarm.  "I  know 
that  he  made  no  will  since  the  one  constituting  me  his 
sole  heir,  which  I  myself  saw  drawn  up,  signed  and 
witnessed  in  June  last." 

"  And  you  are  quite  sure,  Senor,  that  there  has  been 
no  other  substituted  since  ?" 

"  Quite,"  I  answered,  readily  and  haughtily. 
"  What  if  I  should  assure  you,  Senor,  that  there  has 
been?" 

"  Impossible — it  is  false  as  hell !"  I  cried,  now  fully 
aroused. 

"  Say  rather,  Senor,  that  it  is  true  as  heaven  !  I  have 
proof!" 

"Where  is  it!  give  it  me!  let  me  see  it!"  and  I 
clutched  the  priest's  arm. 

Very  calmly  he  took  from  his  bosom  a  small  roll  of 
papers,  gave  it  to  me,  and  folded  his  arms  over  his  ca- 
pacious chest,  as  with  trembling  hands  I  held  it  before 
me,  and  attempted,  but  in  vain,  to  decipher  the  written 


136        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

characters.  They  swam  before  me — my  eyes  grew 
hazed.  All  I  comprehended  was,  that  this  was  indeed 
a  later  will,  signed  by  different  witnesses,  and  making 
my  marriage  with  Veronica  the  forfeit  of  the  entire 
Cordoza  estate! 

Savagely,  and  with  a  brutal  triumph,  I  suddenly  tore 
the  will  to  atoms,  and  scattered  the  fragments  around 
me.  To  my  surprise,  Father  Andrae  neither  spoke 
nor  changed  his  attitude,  but  stood  regarding  me  with 
fixed  and  deliberate  gaze. 

"  Do  you  think,  poor  wretch,"  he  at  length  enuncia- 
ted, in  a  low,  deep  voice,  "  do  you  think  you  have  de- 
stroyed the  last  proof  of  your  uncle's  regard  ?  Do  you 
think  me  madman  enough  to  place  in  your  impious 
hands  anything  but  a  worthless  copy  ?" 

With  a  cry  of  defeated  rage,  I  aimed,  but  unsuccess- 
fully, a  blow  at  his  head. 

"  SefLor,"  he  proceeded,  tauntingly,  "  I  spoke  untruly 
when  I  said  you  would  not  wed  to-day !  I  am  at  your 
command.  Of  course  you  will  yield  this  wealth  to 
others,  and  at  once  make  Senorita  Lola  your  wife. 
Come,  Seflor,  I  am  somewhat  pressed  for  time.  Your 
bride  awaits  you." 

"Devil!"  I  hissed,  passionately,  "wife  or  no  wife, 
Veronica  Lola  shall  be  mine! — Begone !  If  it  were  only 
to  punish  your  insolence,  I  shall  remain  the  Lord  of 
Cordoza !" 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.         137 

He  left  me,  and  re-entered  the  cottage,  for  the  inter- 
view had  taken  place  on  its  veranda.  I  drew  my  tab- 
lets from  my  pocket,  wrote  a  hasty  line  of  temporary 
and  fond  farewell  to  Veronica,  and  returned  to  the 
castle,  determining  to  ferret  out  completely  this  mys- 
tery of  the  new  will  before  I  beheld  her  again. 

That  night  I  never  closed  my  eyes.  1  passed  it  in 
searching  thoroughly  all  my  uncle's  papers,  decipher- 
ing piles  of  manuscript,  and  reading  old  letters,  in  the 
hope  of  discovering  some,  however  slight,  intimation 
of  the  making  of  the  second  will.  Finding  none,  my 
spirits  became  somewhat  less  depressed,  and  striving 
to  comfort  myself  with  the  idea  that  I  had  been  duped 
by  Father  Andrae,  (for  what  purpose,  I  could  not  ima- 
gine,) at  the  breaking  of  morning  I  fell  into  a  sound 
and  refreshing  slumber. 

I  was  awakened  late  in  the  forenoon  by  a  servant, 
who  came  to  inform  me  that  the  Superior  of  a  neigh- 
boring monastery,  (the  same  who  had  attended  my 
uncle  in  his  dying  hours,)  desired  to  obtain  a  few  mo- 
ments interview. 

Dressing  myself  hastily,  with  a  renewal  of  alarm,  I 
descended  to  meet  him.  The  visit  struck  me  as  boding 
no  good.  The  Superior  had  not  come  alone,  Father 
Andrae  and  two  monks  accompanied  him. 

"  Son,"  began  the  good  Superior,  blandly,  "  I  am 
here  on  an  errand  that  will  doubtless  be  displeasing  to 

6* 


138        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

you,  but  my  duty  must  be  discharged.  The  Virgin  be 
praised,  that  Brother  Andrae  saved  you  yesterday  from 
a  deed  that  might  have  impoverished  you  entirely,  al- 
though our  monastery  would  thereby  have  become 
enriched  ;  your  departed  uncle  having  willed  all  his 
enormous  estate  to  it,  in  case  of  forfeiture  by  you. 
The  document  was  placed  by  him  in  my  hands,  short- 
ly before  his  death.  It  is  duly  signed  and  lawfully 
witnessed.  I  have  come  to-day  to  inform  you  publicly 
of  its  existence,  that  you  may  not,  my  son,  cause  its 
reversion  to  us  unknowingly.  Much  good  as  in  our 
hands  this  money  might  produce,  we  desire  not  to  pos- 
sess it  by  fraud, — Heaven  forbid  !  Had  I  known  that 
there  was  any  possibility  of  your  marriage,  within  so 
short  a  time  as  this,  I  would  not  have  waited  even  so 
brief  a  period  to  announce  it  to  you." 

I  thanked  him  coldly,  rang  for  refreshments,  and 
unceremoniously  retired  to  my  apartments. 

It  was  all  true,  then,  and  bitterly  I  cursed  the 
memory  of  my  dead  uncle,  as  fiercely  I  strode  the 
floor.  It  was  true  that  I  must  give  up  the  possession 
of  this  splendour,  or  renounce  Veronica. 

I  felt  that  I  could  not  do  either,  and  stilling  the  re- 
bukes of  conscience,  I  laid  my  plans  to  retain  both. 

Give  up  the  noble,  the  beautiful  Cordoza,  I  would 
not, — renounce  Veronica,  I  could  not ! 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        139 

MANY  days  elapsed  before  I  ventured  near  the  Lolas' 
cottage.  I  felt,  too,  like  a  dishonorable  man.  It  was 
long  before  I  conquered  the  feeling,  and  sought  the 
society  of  her,  whom  I  loved  more  madly  and  more 
selfishly  than  ever. 

Veronica  had  grown  paler  and  thinner ;  the  earthly 
expression  of  her  face  was  now  lost  in  that  of  the 
Madonna.  A  more  spiritual  and  holy  countenance  I 
had  never  beheld. 

She  greeted  me  kindly,  but  distantly. 

"  Father  Andrae,"  thought  I,  and  inwardly  vowed 
revenge.  Veronica's  love  was  too  deep  to  be  lightly 
shaken.  The  effect  of  her  confessor's  exhortations 
vanished  before  my  well-contrived  words  of  passionate 
apology,  and  reiterated  affection.  She  clung  around 
my  neck,  and  wept  bitterly  as  she  begged  forgiveness, 
for  the  doubt  she  had  entertained  of  my  truth.  I  as- 
sured her  of  the  correctness  of  the  report  Father 
Andrae  had  given  her,  concerning  the  contents  of  my 
uncle's  will ;  but  solemnly  declared,  that  I  had  never 
for  one  moment  dreamed  of  retaining  his  riches  at  the 
price  of  her  love.  I  spoke  of  the  humble  and  happy 
home  that  was  yet  to  be  ours,  and,  sobbing  on  my 
shoulder,  Veronica  forgave  my  late  desertion,  in  girl- 
ish words  of  such  tender  and  happy  hopefulness,  that 
I  half  longed  to  make  my  artfully  painted  picture, 
reality. 


140        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

Oh,  it  was  but  the  old,  old  story  !  By  degrees,  and 
it  was  the  work  of  months,  I  revealed  my  true  de- 
sign. 

It  is  enough  to  say,  that  Veronica  met  me  with  all 
the  womanly  scorn,  and  insulted  dignity,  of  which  her 
nature  was  capable,  and,  in  frigid  disdain,  banished  me 
from  her  presence. 

Never  had  she  appeared  more  bewilderingly  beauti- 
ful than  on  that  day.  Her  gesture  of  queenly  and 
imperious  command  to  leave  her ;  her  erect  majesty, 
and  the  appalling  radiance  of  her  indignant  face,  are 
fresh  in  my  memory  to  this  day. 

A  few  weeks  passed.  The  luxury  for  which  I  had 
sacrificed  so  much,  grew  more  hateful  to  me  than  I 
can  express.  Night  brought  no  repose — day  nothing 
but  discontent. 

One  morning,  a  whim  seized  me  to  visit  the  under- 
ground cells,  for  which  the  Castle  of  Cordoza  was  both 
feared  and  noted. 

Guided  by  one  of  my  servants,  bearing  a  lighted 
torch,  I  passed  through  the  long,  damp  galleries  which 
led  below  the  wine  vaults,  to  the  unfrequented  dens, 
used,  in  by-gone  times,  as  prisons  for  the  guilty  or  un- 
fortunate. The  servant  being  familiar  with  the  prin- 
cipal cells  of  these  underground  passages,  led  me 
through  them,  for  inspection.  It  filled  me  with  terror 
to  behold  them.  Some  were  reeking  with  the  odors 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        141 

of  decay,  (for  the  damp  destroyed  whatever  rude  fur- 
niture had  been  allowed  to  remain  in  them,)  and,  in 
one,  horrible  sight !  was  a  fleshless  skeleton,  chained 
by  heavy  irons,  on  the  wrists  and  ankles,  to  the  stone 
wall. 

"  That,"  said  the  servant,  piously  crossing  himself, 
"is  all  that  remains  of  Antonio  Nui,  a  pirate,  impris- 
oned here  for  his  crimes,  by  one  of  the  first  Lords  of 
Cordoza,  who  caught  him  in  the  act  of  firing  a  vessel, 
at  anchor  in  the  Bizcaya,  after  he  had  plundered  it  of 
its  treasure  and  murdered  its  crew.  He  died  of  con 
sumption,  contracted  from  the  dampness  of  his  cell. 
The  Virgin  rest  his  soul !" 

In  other  of  the  dungeons  were  fragments  of  unre- 
cognisable human  bones,  to  which  there  was  no  name 
or  story  attached ;  to  none  of  these  cells  was  any 
light  admitted,  nor  air  that  did  not  come  through  their 
grated  doors. 

Ascending  several  long,  dark  staircases,  we  return- 
ed by  a  different  route  from  that  which  we  had  enter- 
ed. I  was  somewhat  surprised,  on  emerging  from 
these  subterranean  tombs,  to  find  myself  quite  near 
to  my  private  rooms ;  the  last  staircase  having  a  door 
opening  at  its  head,  into  the  same  corridor  as  my 
own.  I  shuddered  involuntarily  as  I  perceived  the 
fact. 

There,  were  mingled  horrible  dreams  with  my  dis- 


142        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

turbed  slumbers  that  night.  In  imagination,  I  was 
again  in  those  dens  of  punishment.  The  skeleton  of 
poor  Antonio  Nui,  smiled  dead,  ghastly  smiles  at  me> 
and  rattled  its  chains  in  despairing  efforts  to  get 
free.  Anon,  its  fleshless  face  seemed  changed  to 
Veronica's  reproachful,  Madonna-like,  countenance : 
her  pale  lips  curling  with  scornful  defiance.  Around 
her  head  twined  a  living  serpent,  in  place  of  the 
jeweled  diadem,  which  I  had  once  given  her,  fashioned 
in  that  shape.  Serpents,  too,  usurped  the  place  of  the 
bracelets  on  her  white  arms,  wreathing  and  rustling  in 
disgusting  folds  around  them.  In  a  moment,  they 
altered  to  the  pirate  Nui's  chains,  and  I  awoke  with  a 
loud,  defiant  laugh  ringing  in  my  ears. 


Wherever  I  might  hope  to  meet  Veronica,  I  was 
in  the  habit  of  loitering  nearly  all  my  time.  At  the 
houses  of  the  poor  and  sick,  and  in  our  old  forest 
trysting-places,  I  passed  many  hours  watching  for  her 
coming.  Once,  or  twice,  I  attained  my  object ;  but  it 
was  always  with  witnesses  that  we  met,  and  speech 
was,  therefore,  out  of  the  question.  I  even  wrote  to 
her,  entreating  to  be  forgiven,  and  promising  for  the 
future  to  aspire  to  no  warmer  title  than  that  of  a 
friend.  1  penned  these  letters  humbly  and  contritely. 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        143 

They  were  no  poor  affectation.  None  of  them  were 
ever  answered. 

I  thought  and  felt  myself  treated  wrongfully ;  a  de- 
sire for  revenge  entered  my  unworthy  soul.  Had  I 
received  the  slightest  tidings  from  Veronica, — a  mere 
line, — a  single  word, — such  is  the  importance  of  trifles, 
I  might  have  become  a  different  man.  It  was  a  turn- 
ing point  in  my  life.  I  had  in  a  degree  conquered  my 
evil  angel ;  that  neglectful  silence  restored  it  to  more 
than  its  usual  sway.  -  I  still  desired  to  meet  Veronica ; 
but  it  was  no  longer  in  a  mood  of  contrition  or  humil- 
ity. The  time  soon  came  when  we  were  again  to 
stand  face  to  face — not  lovingly,  not  kindly  as  once, 
but  in  scorn  and  passion. 

I  had  taken  a  long  walk,  my  gun  on  my  shoulder, 
through  the  forest  that  separates  the  castle  from  the 
plain  cabana  of  the  Lola  family.  As  I  sought  leisurely 
a  large  mossy  rock  near  its  outskirts,  that  had  been 
ths  scene  of  happy  meetings,  I  heard  Veronica's  well- 
known  voice,  singing  a  fragment  of  retrospective  verse 
that  I  had  found  among  my  uncle's  papers  after  his 
death,  and  which,  at  my  request,  she  had  adopted  to 
the  music  of  a  most  melancholy  French  chanson.  It 
evidently  alluded  to  an  earlier  love  than  that  of  Vero- 
nica's mother.  It  ran  thus  : — 


144        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

I  often  stroll  along  the  shore 

Where  once  we  lingered,  hand  in  hand — 
Along  that  beach  of  wave-washed  sand 

Where  we  shall  wander  never  more  ! 

Its  tall  sea-turf  is  green  and  bright, 

Its  grey  rocks  rear  their  rough  heads  still, 
And  everything,  of  good  and  ill, 

Is  yet  the  same  unto  my  sight.  1 

The  quiet  waves  go  murmuring  by 
With  olden  melody  of  sound — 
I  see  no  change  in  aught  around, 

Though  I  behold  with  saddened  eye. 

Upon  our  rustic,  vine-clad  seat, 

That  now  is  crumbling  in  decay, 

I  sit  to  dream  the  hours  away, 
And  wonder  time  has  been  so  fleet ! 

Around  it  lies  the  self-same  scenes, 
As  in  those  days  of  memories  old  ; 
They  need  but  thee,  of  grace  untold, 

To  blot  the  time  that  intervenes. 

They  need  but  thy  sweet  form  and  face 
To  make  the  present  seem  the  past, 
When,  like  a  dream  too  sweet  to  last, 

The  happy  hours  flow  on  apace. 

Alas  !  I  know  I've  seen  depart 

My  manhood's  strong  meridian  days, 
Yet,  as  old  thought  around  me  strays, 

I'm  young  again  in  limb  and  heart. 

I  feel  the  vigor  of  my  youth 

In  memories  of  thy  bygone  kiss  ; 
Oh,  later  love  than  followed  this 

Has  never  known  a  purer  truth  ^ 


FRAGMENT     OP     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.         145 

Apparently,  the  sound  of  her  voice  proceeded  from 
the  very  rock  of  which  I  was  in  quest.  Silently  fol- 
lowing its  direction,  I  soon  reached  an  opening  in  the 
wood  that  gave  me  a  view  of  the  unconscious  girl.  As 
I  supposed,  she  was  sitting  on  the  rock,  and  oh,  pale 
and  fragile  as  a  breaking  lily  !  The  sight  would  have 
melted  any  heart  but  mine  ! 

On  her  brow  she  wore  the  serpent  crown  which  I 
had  given  her  long  before,  and  which  caused  me  such 
lerror  in  my  dream.  Her  wrists  were  encircled  by 
the  bracelets  of  the  same  pattern,  and  with  downcast 
and  abstracted  eyes  she  carelessly  toyed  with  them, 
twisting  first  one  and  then  the  other  around  her  wasted 
arms,  till  the  diamond  eyes  of  the  reptiles  glittered 
with  such  painful  reality,  that  I  sickened  involuntarily. 
A  horrible  and  sudden  idea  came  into  my  mind. 

The  cells,  the  castle  cells  should  be  my  revenge ! 

In  the  excitement  the  thought  occasioned,  I  caused 
a  slight  rustling  of  some  branches  on  which  I  was 
leaning.  Veronica  started,  and  turned  towards  me. 
Our  eyes  met ! 

She  did  not  tremble  or  discover  alarm.  On  the 
contrary,  with  unequalled  dignity,  she  gave  me  a  cold 
bow  of  recognition,  and  gathering  up  her  lace  mantilla, 
turned  to  depart. 

Then  it  was  that  I  advanced  from  my  hiding-place. 


146        FRAGMENT     OF      AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

"  Veronica,"  I  began, — but  she  interrupted  me  with 
fierce  energy  : — 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me  !  I  will  not  hear  you  !  Have 
you  not  offered  me  sufficient  insult  that  you  would 
heap  more  upon  me  ?  Look  at  me !"  and  she  came 
fearlessly  closer,  till  her  warm  breath  mingled  with  my 
own  ; — "  I  am  a  poor,  defenceless  girl,  weak  and  pow- 
erless. If  you  are  human,  you  will  cease  haunting  me 
with  your  evil  presence.  Thank  heaven,  I  no  longer 
love  you ! " 

I  seized  her  hand  as  she  again  attempted  to  leave 
the  spot.  I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  her  searchingly.  As 
I  did  so,  she  became  visibly  agitated. 

"Veronica,"  I  cried,  exultingly,  "you  utter  false- 
hoods !  You  do  love  me,  and  that  better  than  your 
soul's  salvation !" 

She  could  not  endure  my  fixed,  protracted  gaze,  but 
giving  a  murmured  cry,  sank  at  my  feet.  I  did  not  re- 
move the  magnetic  influence  of  my  eyes,  until, 
stooping,  I  kissed  her  gently  on  the  head.  The  act 
seemed  to  restore  her  to  her  usual  self.  She  arose. 

'•'  Be  it  so,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  the  very 
essence  of  bitterness.  "Be  it  so — I  love  you,  and 
hate  myself;  are  you  satisfied  ?" 

"  Not  until  you  have  proved  this  love,  Veronica. 
For  the  last  time,  I  ask  you.  You  cannot  be  my  wife  ; 
I  will  not  deceive  you,  as  to  that.  I  should  be  more 


FRAGMENT     OP     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.         147 

than  mortal   did  I   make  the  sacrifice  that  I  must,  to 
give  you  the  name !" 

"  Tempter !  will  you  never  have  done  ?  Know  that 
although  I  cannot  tear  you  from  my  heart,  I  would 
spurn  you,  even  if  offering  me  that  sacred  title  whi«h 
but  now  you  desecrated  in  the  naming  !  Begone  !  No 
power  in  heaven  or  earth  can  move  me." 

Her  words  maddened  me.  I  caught  her,  suddenly, 
in  my  arms.  I  felt  myself  endowed  at  the  moment 
with  strength  to  bear  her  away,  and  I  laughed,  fiend- 
ishly, at  her  vain  struggles,  her  agonized  cries. 

Night  was  descending.  I  waited  until  utter  dark- 
ness covered  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  silently  carried 
my  then  unconscious  burden  to  the  castle.  Through 
a  private  entrance,  unseen,  I  bore  her  fainting  form  to 
my  own  rooms. 

It  was  hours  before  she  revived  from  her  trance. 
Meanwhile  I  had  taken,  into  the  most  habitable  of  the 
subterranean  dungeons,  one  of  my  own  mattresses, 
some  bed-clothing,  a  chair,  table,  and  lamp.  I  knew 
Veronica's  nature  too  well,  to  imagine  that  she  would 
readily  yield  her  present  resolve ;  but  I  trusted  to 
time  and  the  solitude  of  this  awful  confinement  for 
eventual  compliance,  desiring  a  willing  sharer  of  my 
love  and  splendour,  or  none. 

When  all  my  arrangements  were  completed,  I  again 
took  the  slight  frame  of  my  still  unresisting  victim  in 


148        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

my  arms,  and  consigned  her  to  the  living  tomb  pre- 
pared for  her  reception.  I  had  previously  sent  away 
the  servants,  located  in  that  wing  of  the  castle,  that 
my  diabolical  deed  might  have  no  witnesses. 

-After  placing  Veronica  on  the  rude  couch  in  her 
cell,  I  retrimmed  the  lamp,  (for  sin  made  me  afraid  of 
darkness,)  and  sitting  down  on  the  only  seat  with 
which  I  had  furnished  the  place,  I  awaited  her  re- 
covery. Fright  and  despair  had  so  entirely  over- 
come her  senses,  that  it  was  long  before  I  perceived 
signs  of  returning  consciousness. 

At  length,  with  a  deep  sigh,  she  opened  her  wild 
eyes,  and  looked  around.  Her  haggard  surprise,  as 
she  saw  those  frowning  stone  walls,  and  recognized 
my  features  by  the  dim,  unearthly  light,  sent  wicked 
satisfaction  quivering  through  me. 

With  an  evident  effort  she  attained  a  standing  pos- 
ture. A  fierce  resentment  shone  over  her  face. 

"Where  am  I,  Farlie  Gardener?  What  is  the 
meaning  of  these  prison  walls  and  grated  door  ?  Oh, 
my  God  !"  A  sudden  flood  of  recollection  seemed  to 
come  to  her,  of  the  scene  in  the  wood. 

"  Where  are  you  ?"  I  repeated.  "  In  the  Castle  of 
Cordoza,  and  at  my  mercy." 

She  looked  upon  me  with  an  expression  of  grand, 
proud  pity,  and  murmured  something  that  I  did  not 
hear. 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        149 

"  Veronica,  listen — you  are  my  prisoner.  Not  a 
human  being  knows  of  your  presence  in  this  place. 
You  are  entirely  in  my  power.  No  hand  but  God's 
can  take  you  from  me.  It  is  before  you  to  choose 
between  a  life  of  solitary  confinement  in  this  under- 
ground and  remote  room,  removed  forever  from  the 
light  of  day,  and  from  the  faces  of  humanity,  and  a 
happy,  luxurious  existence,  with  one  whom  you  love, 

and  who  lovesjyou ;  but  whom  circumstances " 

"  Over  which  he  has  no  control,"  shuddered  Veroni- 
ca, with  a  wild,  unnatural  laugh,  that  resounded 
gloomily  in  the  passage-way  beyond.  I  did  not  heed 
her,  but  continued — 

"  Whom  the  force  of  circumstances  prevents  from 
making  you  his  lawful  wife.  Your  obstinacy  on  this 
point  will  be  doubly  criminal,  for  by  it,  you  destroy 
both  yourself  and  me.  Be  my  wife,  in  the  sight  of 
heaven,  Veronica,  since  you  can  never  become  it  on 
earth." 

Warming  with  my  words,  I  prostrated  myself  before 
her  on  the  stone  floor,  forgetting  her  former  disdain — 
forgetting  how  I  had  forfeited  all  claim  to  her  regard, 
by  my  cruelty — remembering  only  her  and  my  great 
love.  She  restored  me  to  myself,  by  saying,  in  a  cold, 
sarcastic  voice — 

"  Arise,    Sefior — I   entreat.      It    is   I,  rather,  who 


150        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

should  bend  to  you,  who  are  the  master  of  this  dreary 
prison,  while  I  am  here  as  its  inmate !" 

"  Veronica — you  shall  repent  this  !  A  few  weeks  in 
this  dainty  dwelling  will  break  your  .proud  spirit. 
Perhaps,  obstinate  woman,  you  may  even  kneel  to  me, 
as  I  have  this  night  knelt  to  you — in  vain !" 

"  Kneel  to  you — monster !  Never !  I  will  starve — 
perish  alone  and  unknown  in  this  loathsome  den; 
but  never,  NEVER  will  I  kneel  to  YOU  !  Are  you  man, 
flesh,  human,  or  is  some  demon  entered  into  your 
being  ?  Great  heaven,  is  it — can  it  be,  that  a  creature 
made  in  God's  image,  dares  defile  himself  with  work 
like  this  ?" 

Involuntarily  I  shrunk  back,  appalled  at  her  words, 
and  her  heavenward  gestures.  We  looked  at  each 
other.  Then,  changing  her  manner,  Veronica  said,  in 
a  low,  despairing,  but  firm  voice — 

"  Leave  me.  I  can  but  die.  You  have  yet  to 
learn,  Farlie  Gardener,  of  what  the  souls  of  true 
women  are  composed.  Once  for  all,  I  tell  you,  death  is 
more  acceptable  than  your  unholy  love  !" 

She  waved  me  fiercely  from  the  cell.  Mortified  at 
the  ill  effect  of  my  monstrous  punishment,  I  obeyed. 
Choking  with  anger,  I  drew  the  door  violently  after 
me,  and  locked  and  bolted  it,  upon  the  only  being 
whom  I  loved  on  earth. 

Reaching  my  rooms,  I  rang  furiously  for  Pedro,  my 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        151 

personal  attendant.  He  answered  the  summons  almost 
instantly,  and,  in  hot  haste,  I  sent  for  the  domestic 
who,  not  'ong  before,  had  conducted  me  through  the 
subterranean  galleries  of  the  castle.  I  was  too  much 
excited  to  act  cautiously,  and  gave  him,  when  he  ar- 
rived, hurried  and  peremptory  commands,  to  fasten 
and  blockade  securely  the  lower  entrance  to  the  cells. 

"  I  do  not  wish  them  entered,  or  the  door  unclosed, 
without  my  personal  orders,"  I  said,  in  carelessly 
haughty  answer  to  the  man's  undisguised  astonish- 
ment. 

"  And  the  upper  door,  Sefior,  the  one  opening  into 
your  own  corridor,  shall  I  seal  that  also  ?" 

"  No,"  I  answered,  with  badly  assumed  calmness, 
"  I  have  the  key  in  my  own  possession.  That  will  be 
sufficient.  Let  me  know  the  instant  my  commands 
are  executed."  The  man  bowed  and  retired. 


GREAT  was  the  consternation  occasioned  throughout 
the  whole  town,  by  the  sudden  disappearance  of 
Veronica  Lola.  Her  grand-parents  grew  nearly  fran- 
tic with  grief,  and  spent  the  whole  of  their  simple 
earnings  in  searching  for  their  lost  child.  These  two 
aged  people  came  to  me  themselves,  and  with  many 
tears,  desired  my  assistance  in  seeking  to  throw  light 


152     FRAGMENT    OF    AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

on  the  mystery  of  her  disappearance.  I  knew  the 
interview  in  the  forest  had  been  unseen,  and,  therefore, 
with  great  show  of  concern,  aided  them  as  though  I 
were  totally  ignorant  of  everything  connected  with 
the  affair.  I  even  offered  large  rewards,  and  succeed- 
ed, as  I  expected  I  should,  in  diverting  suspicion  from 
myself. 

I  was  rich,  despotic,  and  powerful.  Those  who 
could,  perhaps,  have  spoken,  held  their  peace  from 
very  fear. 

A  month  elapsed.  Every  day  I  carried  food, 
secretly  taken  from  my  own  table,  to  my  dauntless 
prisoner.  Since  the  first  night  of  her  confinement  I 
had  not  spoken  to  her ;  I  was  determined,  that  if  she 
yielded,  it  should  be  voluntarily.  Not  one  word  of 
persuasion  or  argument  passed  my  lips. 

At  first,  Veronica  retained  her  proud  and  haughty 
demeanour.  When  I  unlocked  her  cell  daily,  placed 
food  and  drink  upon  her  table,  and  replenished  her 
lamp,  (for  I  was  not  yet  cruel  enough  to  condemn  her 
to  perpetual  night,)  she  eyed  me  with  all  her  old 
majesty.  I,  wretched  craven,  pale  and  trembling  with 
the  consciousness  of  unnatural  actions,  might  have 
been  mistaken  for  the  prisoner,  and  she  for  my  defiant 
gaoler.  Often  she  seemed  to  expect  me  to  address 
her,  but  I  never  did ;  and  after  the  lapse  of  a  month, 
she  grew  gradually  humbler.  She  implored  me,  for 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        153 

pity  on  herself,  on  her  youth,  and  most  of  all,  for  her 
old  grand-parents.  She  represented  to  me  the  joy 
that  accompanies  unrewarded  generosity, — in  a  word, 
she  stooped  so  far  as  to  ask,  with  sobs  of  passionate 
tenderness,  for  an  unconditional  liberation. 

And  she  asked  in  vain. 

My  hour  of  triumph  at  last  was  come. 

From  that  time,  my  nights  and  days  were  lost  in 
one  wild  carousal.  Feasting  and  merry-making 
awoke  midnight  echoes  in  the  old  castle  corridors ; 
the  tinkling  slide  of  dancer's  feet,  the  sound  of  music 
and  revelry,  of  laughter,  phrenzied  by  wine,  black 
with  age  and  rare  richness,  resounded  perpetually 
throughout  its  rooms ;  but  vainly  I  tried  by  such 
means  to  deaden  conscience  and  thought. 

I  could  not  shut  out  pale  statuesque  yisions  of  a 
woman,  dying  in  the  secret  solitude  of  death-engender- 
ing damps.  Her  black  eyes  haunted  me  wherever  I 
moved.  Amid  the  blaze  of  festive  illuminations,  their 
looks  of  entreaty  fell  upon  me;  they  floated  on  the 
very  air,  and,  in  my  fitful  sleep,  burned  themselves  into 
my  dreams. 

Another  month — two,  three,  passed  slowly  away,  to 
the  sepulchre  of  Time's  dead. 

Day  by  day  I  visited  Veronica,  and  day  by  day 
answered  her  dying  appeals  for  freedom  b^  sullen 

7 


154        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

silence,  or  a  brutal  vow,  that  I  or  Death  should  be  the 
conqueror  of  her  obstinacy. 

Meanwhile,  reports  were  gradually  gaining  on  the 
public  ear,  that  gave  me  much  disquiet  of  mind. 
Link  by  link  was  added  to  the  chain  of  circumstances, 
that  went  far  towards  establishing  the  certainty  of  my 
crime.  I  was  known  to  have  been  the  unsuccessful 
suitor  of  Veronica.  The  fact  and  contents  of  my 
uncle's  second  will ;  my  conduct  to  Veronica  after- 
ward; my  letters  to  her,  and  many  other  trifling 
things,  all  conspired  to  fix  the  guilt  of  her  abduction 
on  myself.  I  became  shunned  and  avoided.  Men, 
women,  and  children,  fled  from  my  path,  as  though  I 
were  some  hideous,  misshapen  wretch,  frightful  to  look 
upon.  Report,  (that  never  satisfied  monster,)  said, 
too,  that  my  uncle's  death  had  been  sudden  and  mys- 
terious. Suspicion  of  the  committal  of  one  evil  thing 
led  to  that  of  another. 

I  was  accused,  and  openly  denounced  as  a  mur- 
derer ! 


THERE  have  been  times  in  my  life  when  I  would 
have  given  worlds,  were  they  in  my  possession,  to  hold 
the  power  of  a  musical  improvisatore.  This  mood  of 
inspiration  is  on  me  now,  even  as  I  write.  Could  I 


FRAGMENT     OP     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        155 

but  find  expression — could  I  but  vent  the  whirlwind  of 
music  that  is  coursing  through  me,  I  feel  that  I 
should  form  this,  my  confession,  into  a  creation  more 
grandly  understandable  than  the  words  that  my  pen 
traces  in  cold  obedience  to  my  will.  My  fingers 
throb — my  voice  beats,  silently,  for  utterance  against 
its  prison.  Gods !  could  I  fling  from  me  this  passion 
flood  of  music,  I  would  make  sounds  that  one  could 
grasp ! — sounds,  embodying  pictures  of  life-like  and 
awful  beauty ! 

At  length  I  wearied  utterly  of  Veronica's  unshaken 
resolution,  and  I  sickened,  too,  of  her  constant  prayers 
for  freedom — her  frantic  petitions  for  but  one  breath 
of  fresh  air — one  glimpse  of  green  fields. 

Every  day  added  to  my  uneasiness. 

Public  opprobrium  thickened  around  me.  I  longed 
for  victory  over  Veronica's  stubborn  will,  and  panted 
to  silence  evil  report  forever,  by  producing  her  as  the 
willing  partner  of  my  home  and  fortune.  "' 

Her  grand-parents  were  already  dead.  Dead  of 
terror  and  sorrow  for  her  unknown  fate  ! 

There  was  nothing  now  to  keep  her  from  me — no 
scruple  which  had  earthly  foundation.  God  alone 
stood  between  us ! 

At  last,  in  the  firm  resolve  to  conquer  her  determi- 
nation, either  by  persuasion  or  threat,  I  descended  one 
day  to  her  living  tomb. 


156        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

She  had  been  ill  of  a  fever,  and  was  confined  to  her 
bed. 

When  I  entered,  and  drew  a  seat  to  her  side,  (it 
was  an  unusual  proceeding,)  Veronica  raised  her 
solemn  eyes  to  mine,  and  with  a  weirdly  holy  face, 
said,  slowly — 

"  Tell  me  if  it  be  possible  that  you  believe  in 
Heaven — in  the  existence  of  an  Almighty !  If  you 
do, — if  you  acknowledge  God,  what  think  you,  Farlie 
Gardener,  of  death,  and  of  judgment  afterwards,  for 
deeds  done  in  the  body  ?" 

I  was  irritated  by  the  repetition  of  a  question  that 
filled  my  ears,  waking  or  sleeping,  and  kept  alive  a  re- 
morse I  strove,  in  vain,  to  smother.  I  bade  her, 
rudely,  keep  silence,  while,  for  the  last  time,  I  offered 
her  liberty  and  happiness. 

"  Never  again,  Veronica,  will  I  give  you  this  oppor- 
tunity of  escape  from  the  fate  which  will  be  yours, 
sooner  or  later,  in  these  vaults.  Your  cell  is  below  the 
level  of  the  lake,  and  the  lingering  death  which  you 
must  meet  here  will  remain  forever  unknown. 
Neither  angel  nor  devil  can  save  you,  if  you  reject 
this  last, — remember,  the  last  offer  of  mercy !  You 
have  no  opposition  to  dread  from  your  family — both 
your  grandfather  and  grandmother  are  dead  !" 

Her  own  bodily  anguish,  her  long  sufferings,  had 
so  weakened  her  faculties,  that  she  received  the 


FRAGMENT     OP     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        157 

intelligence  with  scarcely  any  perceptible  sign  of 
emotion. 

A  deeply  drawn  sigh,  and  the  tightened  clasp  of  her 
locked  hands,  was  all  that  indicated  she  had  heard.  I 
continued : 

"  As  long  as  your  perversity  has  held  you  here  a  pris- 
oner, it  is  not  yet  too  late  to  give  you  freedom,  air,  sun- 
shine. I  will  brave  all  consequences,  all  personal  risk 
to  myself.  Not  only  shall  you  be  restored  to  the 
world,  but  I  will  place  you  in  a  position  worthy  alike 
of  your  beauty  and  my  love.  Utter  but  one  word  of 
consent,  and  you  exchange  this  tomb  for  wealth  and 
luxury,  such  as  the  earth  has  seldom  seen.  Money, 
unlimited,  shall  be  placed  in  your  hands  for  distribu- 
tion among  the  poor ;  think,  then,  of  the  good  you 
may  do,  as  well  as  the  happiness  you  confer  upon  me. 
Draw  the  comparison  between  that  life  and  this  ;  pon- 
der on  it  well,  and  in  your  answer,  remember  that  never 
again  will  I  place  this  escape  before  you,  so  help  me 
heaven  !  Choose  !  It  is  the  last  time  !" 

With  great  effort  she  arose.  Oh !  never  more 
would  I  look  on  a  face  like  that !  Thin,  haggard, 
white  as  snow,  and  two  black,  fiery  eyes  surmounting 
it,  flashing  forth  withering  rebuke. 

"  I  have  chosen,  and,  I  thank  heaven,  it  is  for  the 
last  time.  Death !" 

She  sank  back  exhausted.     As  she  did  so,  the  move- 


158         FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

ment  displaced  the  long  locks  of  hair  hanging  di- 
shevelled around  her  neck  and  bosom,  and  J  saw, 
beneath  the  entangled  mass,  what  I  had  not  observed 
since  the  night  I  bore  her  to  the  cell  in  my  arms — 
the  serpent  crown.  I  thought  of  Antonio  Nui.  That 
diadem  appeared  fated  to  suggest  diabolical  deeds. 

Excited  by  the  wrath  of  defeat  and  disappointment, 
I  took,  suddenly,  Veronica's  slight  form  in  my  rough 
grasp,  and  carried  her  from  the  cell. 

That  in  which  reposed  the  skeleton  of  Antonio 
Nui  was  at  the  farther  end  of  the  same  gallery. 

Unresisting,  for  she  was  too  weak,  from  her  illness, 
to  struggle, — with  my  crimson  glass  lantern  depend- 
ing from  one  hand,  I  bore  Veronica  to  it.  The  door 
was  bolted  on  the  outside.  I  was  obliged  to  lay  my 
burden  on  the  floor,  while  I  drew  it.  It  yielded  easily. 
I  entered.  The  skeleton  was  still  there,  chained  in 
half-erect  posture  to  the  wall.  With  horrible  careful- 
ness, I  straightened  it  to  its  full  height,  extended  its 
arms  in  an  upright  attitude,  and  hung  my  lantern  on 
the  iron  spike  to  which  its  chains  were  attached,  that 
the  red  light  should,  with  more  fearful  distinctness,  dis- 
play the  outlines  of  the  dead  man's  bony  frame. 

Then  I  returned  to  the  miserable  girl,  and  carried 
her  from  the  gallery,  within  the  cell  itself;  I  placed 
her  in  such  a  part  of  the  room  as  commanded  the 
most  frightful  view. 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        159 

Veronica  was  unprepared  for  any  spectacle  of  the 
kind,  and  shriek  after  shriek  passed,  in  throes  of  fear 
from  her  lips,  as  she  comprehended  the  scene,  made 
all  the  more  appalling  from  the  red  light  which  I  had 
so  cunningly  contrived  to  make  fall,  from  behind,  upon 
the  pirate's  remains. 

When  I  attempted  to  go  from  the  cell,  she  cried, 
frantically,  not  to  leave  her  alone  in  that  frightful 
place ;  she  implored  to  be  taken  back  to  her  own  quiet 
room,  and  in  her  wild  persuasion,  wept  tears  that  must 
have  been  wrung  from  the  sources  of  her  life. 

I  spurned  her  from  me ;  and,  with  revengeful  satis- 
faction, told  her  that  as  in  her  perversity  and  folly 
she  had  chosen  death,  she  was  now  at  liberty  to  con- 
template it  as  far  as  suited  her,  adding,  that  it  could 
not  be  long  before  she  herself  became  like  what  was 
then  before  her  vision. 

Fastening  the  door,  I  groped  my  way  to  her  late 
cell,  took  from  it  her  lamp,  that  I  might  see  the  re- 
mainder of  the  way,  and  while  her  cries  of  affright 
echoed  throughout  the  galleries,  hastened  to  more 
habitable  regions. 

Suddenly,  Veronica's  shrieks  ceased  ;  their  faintest 
echo  died  away.  Surprised  at  this,  I  retraced  my 
steps  a  short  distance,  and  listened  intently,.  All  was 
still.  Prompted  by  curiosity,  I  returned,  noiselessly, 
to  the  cell.  Peering  through  the  iron  latticed  door,  I 


160        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

beheld  my  poor  victim  kneeling  on  the  stone-floor,  her 
wasted  hands  clasped  in  the  peaceful  attitude  of  exalt- 
ed prayer.  Her  white,  emaciated  face,  upraised  to 
heaven,  was  beaming  with  the  glorified  intensity  of  her 
divine  supplication, — the  lurid  light  that  fell  upon  her 
attenuated  form,  being  relieved  by  deep  and  solemn 
shadows.  Strangely  enough,  the  scene  had  lost  all  its 
horror.  I  saw  at  once,  that  my  malicious  purpose  was 
defeated.  To  my  heated  imagination,  even  the  skele- 
ton arms  of  Antonio  Nui  seemed  extended  in  benedic- 
tion over  Veronica's  holy  prayer. 


EARLY  the  next  morning,  I  was  suddenly  awakened 
by  my  faithful  servant,  Pedro,  and  informed  that  he 
had  just  heard  a  warrant  was  to  be  immediately  issued 
for  my  apprehension  and  committal  for  trial,  on 
charges  concerning  both  Veronica  and  my  uncle 
Oliver. 

Instantly  I  formed  the  resolution  to  leave  the  castle, 
escape  if  possible  from  the  town  itself,  and  remain 
abroad  until  such  time  as  this  excitement  should  have 
abated  sufficiently  to  allow  me  to  return  in  safety. 

What  was  I  to  do  with  Veronica,  and  how  should  I 
still  retain  her  prisoner,  was  my  principal  thought,  as 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.       161 

I  hastily  gathered  together  for  removal  my  money  and 
personal  valuables. 

A  thought  struck  me.  Pedro  was  avaricious,  not 
over-scrupulous,  and  completely  devoted  to  my  in- 
terests. Money,  and  the  promise  of  more,  if  he  proved 
himself  trust-worthy,  bound  him,  scarcely  without  hesi- 
tation, to  do  my  bidding,  although  I  must  confess,  his 
horror,  when  I  revealed  the  nature  of  his  purposed 
task,  irritated  and  annoyed  me.  Hastily  demanding 
from  him  an  oath  of  inviolable  secrecy,  and  thrusting 
into  his  hands  an  uncounted  graspfull  of  gold,  I  bade 
him  follow  me  below,  that  I  might  point  out  the  cell 
of  her  of  whom  in  future  he  was  jailer. 

The  man  offered  not  a  word  of  remonstrance,  but  I 
could  see  the  dews  of  fear  upon  his  forehead.  His 
whole  frame  shook  ;  he  trembled  at  the  magnitude  of 
the  trust  reposed  in  him,  and  the  dark  sin  involved  in 
such  secret  confinement  of  an  unoffending  and  help- 
less woman.  I  half  repented  of  my  confidence  in  him, 
as  together  we  threaded  our  way  through  the  damp 
corridors.  Just  before  we  reached  the  door  of  Antonio 
Nui's  cell,  I  turned  to  him,  and  thinking  to  add  the 
force  of  threat  to  that  of  bribe,  said,  sternly, — 

"  Pedro,  recollect,  you  have  given  me  your  solemn 
oath  !  Should  I  ever  return,  and  find  that  you  have  vio- 
lated it,  by  the  eternal  heavens,  your  life  shall  be  the 

forfeit !  Betray  me,  or  give  this  girl  her  liberty,  and, 
7* 


162        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

though  oceans  divide  us,  you  do  not  live  a  twelvemonth! 
Remember  that!" 

"  Yes.  Senor,"  replied  the  man,  humbly,  and  his 
usually  stolid  features  worked  with  excitement. 

We  gained  the  cell.  With  one  blow  of  my  clinched 
hand,  the  bolt  flew  back.  The  red  lantern  was  still 
hanging  on  its  spike ;  the  skeleton  yet  held  its  fearful 
arms  aloft,  but  the  gloom  of  that  lonely  dungeon  fell 
shroudily  on  nothing  more.  Veronica  was  gone  ! 

I  scarctly  dared  trust  my  eyes.  The  door  was 
bolted  ;  every  thing  looked  the  same.  I  began  to  feel 
cowardly  fear  for  the  secret  power  that  must  have 
been  exerted  against  me,  for  Veronica's  flight  could 
not  have  taken  place  without  assistance.  The  lower 
entrance  to  the  cells  was  still,  as  I  believed,  blockaded, 
and  I  had  in  my  possession  the  only  key  in  the  castle 
that  opened  the  other.  How  then  had  she  escaped  ? 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost  in  idle  speculations. 
The  very  fact  of  her  flight  added  to  the  imperative 
necessity  for  my  immediate  departure  from  the  town. 
Every  moment  was  precious. 

Furiously  I  retrod  the  galleries,  followed  at  a  short 
distance  by  Pedro. 

As  I  placed  my  key  in  the  lock  of  the  outlet  door,  a 
slight  sound,  as  of  the  subdued  voices  and  tread  of 
many  people,  filled  me  with  ominous  forebodings.  It 
might  be  but  the  servants, — I  -must  risk  it, — I  could 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        163 

not  remain  where  I  was.  I  pushed  open  the  massive 
door,  and,  in  one  despairing  glance,  beheld  my  forlorn 
fate.  Ten  armed  men  surrounded  the  entrance,  dress- 
ed in  official  uniform.  I  was  arrested.  I  had  been 
watched  and  betrayed  by  my  own  servants ! 


One  dreary  day,  not  many  months  after  this,  as  I  sat 
alone  in  my  prison,  awaiting  trial,  I  gradually  became 
conscious,  from  something  awful  in  the  atmosphere,  of 
the  approach  of  that  terrible  scourge  to  southern  lands 
— the  earthquake. 

A  profound  stillness  reigned  in  the  air  over  the  town. 
It  was  like  the  repose  of  a  tiger  before  he  springs  upon 
his  prey. 

Even  within  the  jail  walls,  I  knew  the  inhabitants 
of  the  city  were  profiting  by  the  solemn  and  well- 
known  warning.  I  could  hear  the  echoing  tramp  of 
feet  in  the  streets,  and  cries  of  anguish  from  men, 
women  and  children,  as  they  deserted  their  homes  to 
avoid  the  impending  danger. 

Despairingly  I  listened  till  the  last  sound  died  away. 
In  vain  I  watched  for  the  coming  of  some  one  to  libe- 
rate me  from  the  certain  death  that  must  reach  all  who 
remained  within  the  prison.  In  the  general  panic  of 
hurried  departure,  its  inmates  were  forgotten — our 
jailers  liadjled! 


164        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

As  the  first  life-destroying  boom  of  eruption  shook 
the  walls,  I  fell  upon  my  knees,  and,  hardened  sinner 
that  I  was,  attempted  to  pray.  I  had  not  prayed  be- 
fore during  many  years.  I  know  not  now  what  I 
asked, — what  miracle  I  deliriously  demanded  of  hea- 
ven for  my  preservation.  Alternately  I  strove  frantic- 
ly  to  break  the  fastenings  of  the  door,  by  throwing  my 
person  violently  against  it,  and  shrieked  out  maledic- 
tions on  those  who,  busied  with  their  own  safety,  had 
left  me  to  perish.  My  ears  were  filled  with  the  savage 
shouts,  the  maniac  ravings  of  my  fellow  prisoners ; 
their  curses  and  their  prayers  rent  the  air  already 
freighted  with  death  and  destruction.  Like  myself, 
they  were  powerless ;  they  knew  the  town  was  being 
forsaken ! 

As  night  fell,  the  deadened  rumble  of  earth,  ploughed, 
as  it  were,  by  a  whirlwind,  grew  louder  and  stronger. 
We  heard  the  fall  of  buildings,  the  crash  of  breaking 
walls. 


Morning  dawned !  I  never  knew  before  what  a  bless- 
ed thing  the  daylight  is.  Like  the  smile  of  God,  day 
shone  over  the  ruined  town.  The  prison  was,  as  yet, 
unharmed. 

On  a  sudden,  I  heard  below  a  cry, — a  murmur  of 
grateful  joy.  Straining  to  listen,  I  plainly  perceived 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.         165 

the  sound  of  the  withdrawal  of  a  bolt,  the  turning  of  a 
key,  and  again  undistinguishable  words  of  surprise  and 
thankfulness. 

Some  one, — thank  God, — had  come  to  set  us  free  ! 
One  by  one,  I  heard  the  fastenings  of  the  cells  undone, 
and,  with  feverish  eagerness,  awaited  my  own  libera- 
tion. The  steps  grew  nearer— they  ascended  the  stairs 
to  the  story  in  which  I  was  confined !  There  was  a 
rattle  of  keys,  and  the  door  of  the  cell  nearest  the  land- 
ing swung  on  its  hinges  ;  amid  hysterical  cries  of  joy, 
its  occupant  fled  quickly  from  the  place. 

But  another  door,  and  I,  too,  should  have  liberty ! 

My  pulses  throbbed, — my  very  heart  ached  with 
expectation. 

Nearer,  nearer  they  came,  and,  at  last,  the  feet  of 
the  emancipator  paused  before  MY  cell. 

Joy  struck  me  dumb.  I  could  not  speak.  My  lips 
were  sealed  together, — the  steps  passed  on  to  the 
next  door.  I  tried  to  cry  out,  but  by  no  effort  of  the 
will  could  I  accomplish  my  purpose.  The  misery  of 
suspense  bereft  me  of  strength, — I  sank  heavily  upon 
the  floor. 

The  jar  of  the  fall  must  have  attracted  the  attention 
I  had  so  vainly  sought  to  win.  There  was  a  hasty 
return — a  key  was  fitted  to  the  lock — the  door  opened 
slowly,  and — I  \vasfree! 


166       FRAGMENT     OF     A  U  T  O  B  I  O  G  R  A  P  II  Y . 

Scarcely  staying  to  look  on  my  preserver,  in  one 
bound  I  stood  without  the  cell. 

The  grey  light  of  the  dawn  hardly  revealed  the  in- 
tricacies of  the  jail,  as  I  passed  through  it,  and  reached, 
at  last,  its  portals. 

For  a  moment  I  paused  upon  the  threshold,  contem- 
plating, in  awe  and  fear,  the  spectacle  of  sublime  ruin 
which  the  town  had  become.  Scarcely  a  trace  of  its 
former  appearance  remained.  Its  homes  were  deso- 
lated, and  mounds  of  still-convulsed  earth  usurped  the 
places  of  many  a  stately  building,  while  here  and 
there  a  huge  cavern  widely  distended  its  hungry 
jaws. 

I  gazed  in  the  direction  of  the  castle,  but  a  billowy 
rise  of  confused  stones  alone  met  my  eyes.  Beyond 
where  it  had  stood  glimmered  the  Aro,  looking  in  the 
dim  light  most  mockingly  beautiful. 

I  wept  as  I  beheld.  My  crime  had,  indeed,  met 
punishment.  Suddenly,  a  hand  from  behind  touched 
my  shoulder.  Turning,  I  saw  the  flowing  robes  of 
my  liberator.  In  the  darkness  of  my  prison,  I  had 
thought  him  to  be  a  monk ;  but,  as  with  a  quick  move- 
ment of  the  hand,  the  cloth  around  the  face  was 
thrown  back,  a  woman,  in  the  garb  of  a  nun,  stood 
revealed  before  me ! 

One  glance  sufficed.     It  was  Veronica  ! 

I  know  not   what   burning   words   I  poured   forth 


FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.        167 

to  her;  they  consumed  their  very  memory  in  the 
fervor  of  their  utterance.  I  do  but  remember 
how,  in  the  true  contrition  that  retributive  night  had 
wrought  in  my  soul,  I  implored  pardon  for  the 
great  wrong  I  had  done  her,  and,  in  prostrate  peni- 
tence of  spirit,  received  it.  No  revenge,  however 
severe,  could  have  filled  me  with  the  tenfold  remorse 
that  did  Veronica's  solemn  pardon,  bestowed  without 
bitterness  of  feeling. 

"  Farlie,"  said  her  low,  sad  voice,  "  I  forgive  you  all, 
even  as  I  hope  myself  to  be  forgiven.  The  prayers  of 
the  Sister  Agnes  Dolores  shall  ever  be  yours,  and  in 
them,  and  her  new  existence,  she  will  strive  to  forget 
her  less  holy  one,  as  Veronica  Lola.  Our  convent 
and  this  dreadful  jail  are  two  of  the  few  buildings 
within  the  town  walls  on  which  God  has  not  laid  his 
avenging  hands.  Neither  the  Sisters,  nor  our  Supe- 
rior, have  dared  to  think  of  flight,  when  so  much  re- 
mains to  be  done.  The  convent  is  filled  with  the  sick 
and  wounded,  whom,  forsaken  by  their  friends,  we 
have  gathered  together  from  the  ruins  of  their  homes. 
To  me  was  given  to-day  the  duty  of  freeing  the 
occupants  of  this  place." 

"And  why  was  the  undertaking  bestowed  upon 
you  V  I  asked,  as,  in  the  livid  dawn-light,  we  wended 
our  way  from  the  prison.  "  It  was  a  perilous,  a  diffi- 
cult task, — how  did  it  fall  to  you  ?" 


168        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

Her  answer  touched  me  with  deep  shame.  Casting 
down  her  eyes,  she  uttered  meekly — 

"  Because  I,  of  all  others,  knew  so  well  the  horrors 
of  a  prison,  and  the  glory  of  liberty  !" 

As  we  passed  through  the  deserted  town,  with  great 
difficulty  finding  foothold  on  the  elevations  thrown  up 
everywhere  in  its  streets,  and  which  threatened  every 
moment  to  separate  and  engulph  us,  we  neared  the 
burial  ground,  which  for  centuries  had  been  the  rest- 
ing place  of  the  Cordozas,  and  amid  whose  costly 
magnificence  of  monuments,  tombs,  and  statues,  re- 
posed the  remains  of  my  uncle  Oliver. 

Pausing  at  the  overthrown  wall,  Veronica  beckon- 
ed me  to  follow  her  within  the  enclosure.  Mechani- 
cally I  obeyed,  treading  now  on  a  broken  antique 
statue,  and  now  on  the  exposed  and  whitened  bones  of 
past  generations. 

She  led  the  way,  silently,  to  my  uncle's  grave.  It 
was  rent  asunder.  A  bush  of  a  tropical  plant,  the 
scarlet  fuchsia,  lay,  uprooted  from  its  gray  marble 
vase,  upon  the  open  grave ;  over  the  white  and  un- 
changed features  of  the  dead,  rested,  in  awful  contrast, 
a  single  spray  of  its  long  red  bells. 

The  ground  was  still  slightly  heaving.  The  con- 
vulsions of  nature  were  not  yet  over. 

"Before  we  part  forever,"  said  Veronica,  with  the 


FRAGMENT     OP     AUTOBIOGRAPHY.         169 

earnestness  of  a  seraph  pleading  at  the  eternal  throne 
for  a  rejected  sinner,  "  tell  me,  in  the  solemnity  of  this 
hour  and  place, — tell  me,  over  this  opened  grave,  and 
in  the  sight  of  that  heaven  that  has  given  such  terri- 
ble tokens  of  aroused  wrath — tell  me  truly,  if,  indeed, 
your  hand  did  this,"  and  she  pointed  to  the  mound 
that,  as  she  spoke,  closed  with  a  slow  movement  over 
the  unconscious  remains. 

With  that  livid  light  over  us,  and  the  groaning 
earth  beneath  our  feet,  I  knelt,  and  vowed  that  my 
hands  were  unstained  with  human  blood. 


Leaving  the  burial  ground,  we  at  last  reached  the 
gates  of  the  forsaken  town. 

"  Go,"  then  cried  Veronica,  indicating,  with  out- 
stretched hand,  the  highway  leading  across  the 
plains  that  surrounded  the  city — "go,  and  may  the 
Holy  Virgin  lead  you  to  a  purer  life,  and  guard  you 
in  it !" 

I  pressed  her  hand  to  my  lips  as  reverentially  as  I 
would  have  kissed  the  hem  of  an  angel's  robe,  and  we 
parted. 

Looking  back  from  afar  off,  I  saw  the  flutter  of 
Veronica's  black  garments,  as  she  returned  to  her 
convent,  and,  in  the  distance,  beheld  the  shapeless 


170        FRAGMENT     OF     AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

mass  that  had  once  constituted  a  part  of  the  wealth 
for  which  I  had  sacrificed  so  much  of  honor  and  vir- 
tue— the  Castle  of  Cordoza. 

Then  I  went  out  into  the  wilderness  of  a  new  and 
bitter  life,  bearing  within  my  breast  a  bitter  and  undy- 
ing remorse. 


ZOE  BELL'S  BIBTHDAY. 


«ZOE!" 

"  Yes,  dear  Mr.  Gravity." 

"  You  are  twenty  years  old  to-day,  child." 

"  I'm  pretty  ancient,  am  I  not,  sir  ?" 

"  Very.     It's  time  you  were  married." 

"  Married  !  don't  speak  of  it !  I  am  going  to  make  a 
nice  old  maid,  guardian,  and  have  such  jolly  times, 
with  a  cat,  poodle  and  parrot,  in  a  seventh-story  room. 
Married !  not  I !" 

"  Young  Mr.  Hooper,  Zoe,  is  dying  to  win  a  smile 
of  encouragement  from  you.  Why  don't  you  accept 
him,  and  settle  down  in  the  world  ?" 

"  Mr.  Hooper !  now,  guardian,  just  imagine  what  a 
couple  we  would  make !  He  never  says  a  word,  and  I 
should  have  to  do  all  the  talking  myself.  Besides,  I'm 
some  three  feet  shorter  than  he  is.  I  would  be  obliged 
to  carry  a  hooked  cane  to  reach  his  arm !" 

There  was  a  half-suppressed  twinkle  in  Mr.  Harvy's 
gray  eyes,  as  he  looked  at  the  beaming,  cheerful  face 
of'his  young  ward  ;  a  moment  afterwards,  his  natural 
gravity  of  manner  was  resumed. 


172  ZOE    BELL'S    BIRTHDAY. 

"  I  am  getting  old,  my  dear  child.  I  want  to  see 
you  under  the  protection  of  some  good  man  before  I 
die." 

"  Then  I  must  relinquish  my  ideas  of  the  parrot  and 
my  seventh  story  ?  Impossible !  Am  I  in  the  sere  and 
yellow  leaf,  guardian,  that  you  speak  so  seriously  ?  Is 
there  danger  in  delay  ?  Am  I  growing  crabbed  and 
crusty  ?  Is  my  market  spoiling  ?" 

The  young  creature  rose  and  stood  before  him,  blush- 
ing and  smiling  alternately. 

"  Tell  me  guardian.     Look  at  me  well." 

"  Zoe,  you  are  as  vain  as  you  are ,  I  will  not 

say  what !  you  shall  not  have  the  compliment  you  ex- 
pect." 

"  Then  you  are  anxious  to  get  rid  of  me,  that  is  it. 
I  see  it  all.  I  do  not  think  you  will  succeed,  guar- 
dian. I  won't  go." 

Mr.  Harvy  drew  her  to  him,  and  in  an  affectionate, 
fatherly  way,  kissed  her  between  the  eyes. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  spoiled  you,  child  ;  you  are  very 
wilful." 

He  smiled  as  lie  spoke.  Between  ourselves,  reader, 
I  do  not  believe  this  wilfulness  troubled  him  very 
much. 

Zoe  settled  herself  at  his  feet,  and  looking  up  at  him 
with  a  wicked  gleam  of  mischief  in  her  eyes,  said — 

"  Well,  if  it  must  be,  it  must  be,  and  I  will  resign 


ZOE    BELL'S    BIRTHDAY.  173 

myself  to  my  fate.  What  do  you  think  of  Harry 
Grafton,  sir  ?  Will  he  do  ? 

A  momentary  flush  crossed  her  guardian's  face, 
which  Zoe  was  not  slow  to  observe. 

"No,  Zoe,  any  one  but  him.     He  is " 

"  Young  and  handsome,  just  what  I  was  going  to 
say,  sir!" 

"  But  not  what  /  was  going  to  say,  child.  Rather 
than  see  you  his  wife,  I  would 

"  Marry  me  yourself,  sir  ?" 

Oh,  Zoe,  Zoe,  how  could  you !  Do  you  see  the  grave 
sorrow,  the  rebuking  tenderness  in  the  kind  face  be- 
fore you  ?  Do  you  see  that  flitting  shadowy  trouble  ? 

The  young  girl  leaned  her  head,  childlike,  on  the 
arm  of  her  guardian,  and  in  the  same  playful  tone  said, 
in  reply  to  his  reproving,  "  don't  be  foolish  child," — 

"  Whom,  then,  dear  sir,  shall  I  marry  ?  It  is  leap- 
year, — I  may  ask  whom  I  please." 

"  Well,  Zoe,  there  is  that  young  Englishman  ;  he  is 
handsome,  wealthy, — " 

"  And  speaks  in  a  rich  Cockney  voice,  that  is  de- 
cidedly euphonious,"  interrupted  Zoe,  imitating  the 
tones  in  question,  till  Mr.  Harvy  laughed  involuntari- 
ly. "No,  no,  I  beg  to  be  excused.  I  prefer  my 
room  in  the  seventh  story  to  a  life-companionship  with 
'is  'ighness  in  a  palace.  Any  one  else,  dear  guar- 
dian?" 


174  ZOE  BELL'S    BIRTHDAY. 

"  Plenty,  little  girl ;  there  is  Mr.  Gray,  and  Mr. 
Lindman,  the  latter  I  know  by  experience  to  be  one 
of  the  best  men  in  the  world." 

"  Oh,  guardian,  what  an  elastic  phrase, — '  one  of  the 
best  men  in  the  world !'  I  suppose  that  means  a  very 
good,  insignificant  and  spiritless  person  ;  whose  society 
careful  mothers  court,  and  their  daughters  as  adroitly 
avoid,  thinking  anything  is  better  than  a  bore  that 
moralizes,  as  your  '  best  man'  invariably  does.  How- 
ever, I'll  think  of  it !  Don't  despair  about  me,  dear 
guardian,"  and  humming 

"  Heigho,  will  nobody  marry  me  !" 

little  Zoe  Bell  gathered  up  her  Berlin  worsteds,  and 
left  Mr.  Harvy's  study.  He  was  a  fine  looking  man, 
somewhat  past  the  prime  of  life,  with  a  grave,  Greek 
face,  in  which  intellect  and  habitual  melancholy  strug- 
gled for  precedence. 

As  the  door  closed  on  his  pretty  ward,  he  leaned  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  and  fell  into  deep  thought. 

Zoe  Bell  was  as  wild  and  erratic  a  little  creature  as 
any  that  the  sun  ever  shone  upon,  but  withal,  she  was 
so  winning,  so  irresistibly  lovable,  that  none  would 
have  had  her  differetit  from  what  she  was. 

Her  mother  had  died  a  few  weeks  after  her  birth, 
and  in  the  course  of  one  or  two  years,  her  father,  a 
New- York  merchant,  married  again.  Mr,  Bell's 


ZOE    BELL'S    BIRTHDAY.  175 

second  wife  had  been  to  Zoe  but  a  poor  guide  in  the 
development  of  those  traits  of  character  which  are  so 
necessary  for  a  woman  content  with  her  own  le- 
gitimate sphere. 

Her  step-mother  was  an  excellent  and  daring  horse- 
woman. Zoe  grew  up  very  passionately  fond  of  the 
same  exercise,  and  from  babyhood  had  led  an  uncurbed 
sort  of  jockey-life.  Her  naturally  high  terperament 
was  left  to  take  its  own  course,  because,  although 
dearly  beloved  by  her  step-mother,  discipline  of  any 
kind  was  a  stranger  in  her  home. 

Ungoverned  and  ungovernable,  Zoe  reached  her 
eighteenth  year. 

Misfortunes  then  came  upon  the  family.  Having 
engaged  in  many  hazardous,  and  perhaps  not  strictly 
honorable  speculations,  Mr.  Bell  failed,  and  fled  from 
the  country.  After  a  few  months  his  wife  joined  him 
abroad,  (a  want  of  love  for  her  husband  was  not  among 
her  many  failings,)  and  desolate  little  Zoe  accepted 
her  god-father's  offer  to  share  his  home ;  Mr.  Bell's 
death  shortly  afterwards  leaving  her  totally  without 
resource.  For  two  years  Mr.  Harvy,  and  his  kind, 
venerable  mother,  had  striven,  by  gentle  and  unseen 
means,  to  soften  the  imperfections  of  Zoe's  character. 
To  them  it  had  been  a  labor  of  love,  and  one  that  in 
the  end  was  not  unsuccessful ;  her  very  faults,  her 
wilfulness,  her  high  spirits,  endeared  her  to  them. 


176  ZOE    BELL'S    BIRTHDAY. 

Zoe's  beauty  was  peculiar, — something  of  the  gipsey 
and  the  queen  were  blended  in  her  merry  face  and 
carelessly  proud-bearing,  the  phantom-like  effect  of  her 
dark,  lustrous  eyes,  bewildered  all  on  whom  their  flash- 
ing glances  fell.  She  was  a  tiny  creature  for  such  a 
womanly  appearance,  and  there  was  much  fascination 
in  her  manners — manners  made  up  of  a  sort  of  flash- 
blending  of  mirth,  good-humor,  and  enthusiasm. 

Shortly  after  the  study-door  closed  upon  Zoe,  Mrs. 
Harvy,  a  beautiful,  silver-headed  lady,  entered  it 
through  a  window  that  opened  on  the  balcony.  She 
was  quite  old,  but  a  temperate  and  active  life  had  pre- 
served her  health  and  strength  to  an  advanced  period. 
The  same  benevolent  kindness  beamed  in  her  face  as 
in  her  son's,  the  same  mild  eyes  were  hers,  the  same 
frank,  smiling  mouth — not  a  mouth  thin-lipped,  small 
and  selfish,  but  one  that  made  you  think  of  a  generous 
heart,  as  large  for  the  frame  as  that  mouth  was  for  the 
face ! 

Mr.  Harvy  looked  up  from  his  reverie  as  his  mother 
entered. 

She  seated  herself  in  an  easy  chair,  and  began  talk- 
ing to  her  son  on  trivial  subjects  ;  but  a  troubled  ex- 
pression in  her  venerable  face  soon  drew  his  attention, 
and  on  his  earnest  request  to  know  the  cause  of  her 
annoyance,  she  told  him,  with  indignant  warmth,  of 
the  gossiping  scandal  that  had  that  day  reached  her 


ZOE    BELL'S    BIRTHDAY.  177 

ears,  regarding  Zoe ;  how  their  petted  darling  was  re- 
garded among  their  neighbors,  as  an  eccentric  young 
woman,  whose  society  it  was  best  to  avoid ;  her  habit 
of  roving  alone,  over  the  country,  on  horseback,  hav- 
ing awakened  the  holy  horror  of  the  village  gossips. 

"  Dear  heart  alive !  what  will  they  invent  next  ?" 
murmured  the  old  lady  when  she  had  concluded. 
"  What  more  can  they  say  of  our  poor  little  cap- 
tain ?" 

This  was  a  title  she  had  given  Zoe,  in  playful  allu- 
sion to  the  young  girl's  established  boast,  that  she 
could  ride,  swim,  and  break  a  colt  better  than  any 
man  in  the  country. 

"  What  more,  indeed  !"  spoke  Mr.  Harvy.  "  Dear 
mother,  Zoe  must  remain  with  us  no  longer  !" 

"  Zoe  !  are  you  crazy,  my  son  ?  Send  little,  friend- 
less Zoe  away,  Philip !" 

He  turned  very  pale. 

"  Do  you  not  understand  why,  mother  ?  Do  you 
not  see  the  imperative  necessity  for  her  leaving  Hazel- 
wood  ?" 

"  Poor  child — poor  child,"  said  the  compassionate 
old  lady,  at  last, — "  I  see  it  all !  If  they  speak  ill  of 
her  now,  they  will  speak  worse  of  her  in  time.  Her 

position  here "  she  paused,  as  if  to  reflect.  Her 

son  took  up  her  words. 

"  Her  position  here,  as  my  ward,"  he  said  it  with 
8 


ZOE     BELL    8     BIRTHDAY. 

much  bitterness,  "  will  not  protect  her  good  name.  If  I 
were  older,  mother,  it  might  not  be  so, — but,  stay,  Zoe 
shall  not  leave  Hazelwood !"  A  thought  seemed  to 
strike  him.  He  crossed  the  room  to  his  aged  parent, 
kissed  her  wrinkled  forehead,  and  said,  "  She  shall 
never  be  taken  from  you,  mother.  She  is  to  you  as  a 
beloved  daughter.  It  is  /  who  will  go  away  from 
Hazelwood  !" 

"  You,  Philip  !  no,  oh  no — do  not  take  from  me  the 
staff  of  my  old  age  !" 

"  Dear  mother — what  then  shall  we  do  ?  I  may  not 
be  gone  long.  Zoe,  some  day,  will  marry,  and  I  can 
then  come  back  to  you." 

The  poor  old  lady  hesitated,  then,  with  a  burst  of 
tears,  cried — 

"  You  are  right,  my  son ;  go,  and  God  be  with 
you." 


ALONR,  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  chamber,  the  re- 
strained passion  of  that  proud,  strong  man,  burst  forth 
unchecked. 

He  sat  there  with  his  secret  grief  till  the  shades  of 
evening  filled  the  quiet  room,  and  then  descended  to 
the  evening  meal. 

"  I  am  unworthy  of  her,"  he  thought ;  "  her  youth, 


ZOE   BELL'S   BIRTHDAY.  179 

her  gladness  of  feeling,  her  beauty,  all  entitle  her  to  a 
younger,  fresher  heart  than  I  have  to  offer  her.  I  will 
go  away — I  will  forget  her— 'if  /  can  /" 

Zoe  was  not  present  at  the  tea-table.  She  had  not 
yet  come  back  from  her  afternoon  ride,  and  the  sor- 
rowful meal  passed  in  unbroken  silence  between  the 
mother  and  son,  excepting  once,  when  Philip  Harvy, 
going  to  the  window  to  watch  through  the  darkness  for 
Zoe's  return,  said  slowly,  as  though  musing  aloud — 

"  '  Unsatisfied  !  unsatisfied  !'  is  the  universal  cry  of 
mankind.  Let  our  actual  happiness  be  what  it  may, 
we  worship  forever  the  unattained,  and,  oftentimes, 
unattainable.  If  we  could  grasp  the  eternal  stars,  we 
would  weep  for  something  higher  and  nobler  for 
which  to  long  and  battle  !" 

Presently  there  came  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  on 
the  paved  court-yard.  Mr.  Harvy  left  the  room  to 
assist  Zoe  to  alight,  and  a  moment  after  they  entered 
together,  she  leaning  on  his  arm,  laughing  and  talking 
as  though  her  very  innocent  heart  were  in  her  words. 
Her  black  eyes  sparkled  merrily,  as,  shaking  her  long 
curls  free  from  her  plumed  riding-cap,  she  flung  her- 
self, carelessly,  on  an  ottoman. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  her  gaiety,  the  sad  faces 
of  her  benefactor  and  her  aged  friend  drew  her  alarmed 
attention.  Her  own  bright,  young  countenance  cloud- 
ed with  the  shadows  of  anxiety  and  loving  interest. 


180  ZOE    BELL'S    BIRTHDAY. 

"  Dearest  Mrs.  Harvy — dear  guardian,  what  is  the 
matter, — what  has  happened — are  you  sick,  faint, 
or ?" 

Strangely  enough,  Zoe  addressed  herself  to  her 
guardian  alone,  although  her  words  were  spoken  to 
both  his  mother  and  himself.  She  looked  at  him  with 
wild  alarm,  and  in  her  eagerness,  rose  and  went 
towards  him. 

"  It  is  nothing,  Zoe — nothing,"  Mr.  Harvy  said, 
faintly  smiling,  as  he  stroked  her  glossy  hair.  "  I  am 
about  to  leave  Hazelwood  for  some  time,  that  is  all ;  I 
suppose  I  look  a  trifle  graver  than  usual  at  the  pros- 
pect of  parting." 

"  About  to  leave  Hazelwood  !"  repeated  Zoe,  slowly. 
Her  blacK  riding-dress  was  entangled  in  her  feet ;  she 
stooped  to  gather  it  aside.  When  she  arose  again, 
her  face  was  calm  and  unmoved. 

"  Oh,  what  shall  we  do  without  you  ?  This  is  very 
sudden." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  thought  bitterly  of  the  vast 
difference  between  her  feelings  and  his  own. 

He  did  not  hear  the  rising  sobs  that  she  choked 
down — he  did  not  see  the  hot  tears  that  were  swept 
away  by  that  casual,  artful  movement  of  her  long, 
white  fingers. 

"  Going  away !"  she  repeated.  "  Dear  guardian,  you 
will  not  be  gone  long  ?" 


ZOE   BELL'S   BIRTHDAY.  181 

"  No — not  long !"  he  said,  coldly,  as  a  vision  of  Zoe's 
marriage  to  another  came  before  his  mind's  eye.  "  I 
am  afraid  it  will  not  be  long." 

He  had  cherished  a  faint,  dim  hope,  that  surprise 
would  betray  her  into  a  display  of  the  actual  feelings 
she  bore  towards  him ;  he  had  thought,  if  she  really 
loved  him,  that  some  sudden  look  or  word  would,  un- 
consciously, reveal  it. 

With  keen  disappointment  he  now  felt  that  she 
regarded  him  but  as  her  benefactor  and  her  friend. 

"  I  am  old  enough  to  be  her  father,"  he  said,  inward- 
ly. "  It  is  unnatural  to  expect  her  love.  I  will  never 
ask  it  !" 


THERE  was  a  gentle  rap,  that  night,  at  the  door  of 
Zoe's  little  tapestried  room. 

"  Come  in,"  she  cried,  carelessly,  from  her  seat  at 
the  window.  The  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Harvy 
entered. 

Neither  had  disrobed  for  the  night.  Mrs.  Harvy 
was  evidently  suffering  deeply.  Her  aged  hand 
shook  like  an  aspen  leaf,  as,  laying  it  gently  on  Zoe's 
pretty  head,  she  blessed  her. 

"  Bless  you,  bless  you,  my  child,"  she  exclaimed,  fer- 
vently, "  remain  as  good  and  as  dutiful  as  you  now 


182  ZOE    BELL'S    BIRTHDAY. 

are,  and  there  is  no  sacrifice  we  will  not  make  for 
you!" 

"  Then  this  sacrifice  is  made  for  me  ?"  asked  Zoe, 
quickly,  looking  at  her  adopted  parent  with  eyes  of 
eager  and  penetrating  affection. 

The  confused,  regretful  droop  of  that  faded,  grief- 
stricken  countenance,  told  her  but  too  plainly  what  she 
had  already  feared  and  conjectured. 

On  the  instant,  Zoe's  resolve  was  taken.  She,  too, 
had  heard  the  gossiping  reports  of  the  villagers,  and  in 
part  had  guessed  the  reason  of  her  guardian's  depar- 
ture from  Hazelwood.  For  months  she  had  known 
that  she  was  much  more  to  that  guardian  than  a  ward  ; 
hitherto  it  had  seemed  something  unreal,  a  conquest 
worthy  merely  of  a  passing  girlish  smile,  or  a  merry 
thought.  Now  this  great  sacrifice,  this  proof  of  manly, 
generous  devotion,  womanized  her ;  she  was  no  longer 
the  laughing  girl ;  that  moment  made  her  a  grateful, 
thoughtful  woman,  aye,  and  a  loving  one,  too.  Until 
then,  she  never  knew  the  full  extent  of  her  attachment 
to  her  guardian.  Her  eyes  were  opened  to  her  own 
heart. 

She  kissed  Mrs.  Harvy  good-night,  and  resumed  her 
seat  at  the  window,  as  the  kind  old  lady  left  the  cham- 
ber. It  was  raining  violently.  In  Zoe's  strange  mood 
there  was  affinity  between  her  and  the  storm.  The 
pattering  of  the  drops  upon  the  panes  sounded  like 


ZOE   BELL'S    BIRTHDAY.  183 

music  ;  she  experienced  a  strange  sensation  of  happi- 
ness, for  which  she  could  not  account.  She  felt  ele- 
vated above  herself. 

For  some  time  she  sat  reflecting  by  the  dim  light  of 
her  expiring  lamp. 

Then  a  sudden  desire  seized  her  to  find  utterance 
for  her  feelings  in  music.  The  storm  without  suggest- 
ed the  beautiful  hymn,  commencing — 

"Jesus,  Saviour  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  waves  of  trouble  roll, 

While  the  tempest  still  is  nigh." 

She  was  singing  it  in  a  subdued,  sweet  under-tone, 
when  the  thought  struck  her  to  go  down  to  the  parlor, 
and  try  it  with  piano-accompaniment. 

It  was  still  early. 

Lowly  humming  the  sacred  air,  she  trod  the  long, 
dreary,  and  faintly-lighted  gallery,  to  ihe  stair-case, 
descending  which,  she  entered  the  large  drawing- 
room. 

A  few  embers  still  glowed  upon  the  wide,  old- 
fashioned  hearth,  remnants  of  the  day's  fire,  and  guided 
by  their  feeble  rays,  Zoe  found  her  way  to  the  piano. 

She  did  not  care  to  light  a  lamp ;  feeling  that  the 
twilight  would  best  accord  with  her  thoughts  and  her 
song,  she  played  a  soft,  impromptu  prelude.  Warming 
with  her  subject,  she  continued  to  improvise  for  some 


184  ZOE    BELL'S    BIRTHDAY. 

time,  then,  lowly,  tenderly,  she  began  the  hymn.     It 
is  replete  with  genuine,  religious  feeling. 

When  she  had  finished  that  thrilling  appeal  of  a  dis- 
tressed soul  to  its  Maker,  and  the  half-murmured,  half- 
chaunted  music  fell  into  silence,  a  slight  sound  like  a 
suppressed  sigh  startled  the  young  vocalist,  and 

"  It  is  only  I,  Zoe  !"  broke  upon  the  stillness  through 
the  well-known  voice  of  Mr.  Harvy. 

Turning  towards  the  spot  from  which  the  sound 
came,  now  that  her  eyes  had  become  accustomed  to 
the  obscure  light,  Zoe  saw  her  guardian  sitting  at  one 
side  of  the  fire,  in  a  large  arm  chair,  that  almost  hid 
him  in  its  deep  embrace. 

She  lifted  her  hands  from  the  white  keys,  and  moved 
towards  him. 

"  Sit  still,  Zoe,  little  girl.  Do  not  stop ;  it  gives  me 
pleasure  to  hear  you.  It  may  be  the  last  time,  child !" 

Oh,  how  that  deep,  half-sorrowful  voice  rang  upon 
her  hearing ! 

"  Dear  guardian,  I  would  rather  talk  to  you !  I  can 
sing  no  more  to-night.  I  had  not  thought  to  have  a 
listener.  May  I  talk  to  you,  sir  ?" 

Something  whispered  her,  "  now,  Zoe,  now  or  never," 
and  she  felt  she  must  obey. 

There  was  a  brief  pause. 

"  Did  you  sing  that  from  feeling,  Zoe  ?"  the  kind 
voice  asked,  at  length.  "  Did  you  think  that  the  '  tern- 


ZOE    BELL'S    BIRTHDAY.  .    185 

pest'  you  sung  of  is  nigh ;  '  the  waves  of  trouble'  roll- 
ing towards  you  ?  Are  you  unhappy,  my  child  ?" 

"  /  /  No,  no,  how  can  I  be,  when  you  are  so  good 
to  me,  and  protect  me  from  every  harm." 

"  There  was  a  world  of  meaning  in  your  voice, 
Zoe." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  myself,  sir." 

"  Of  whom  then,  child  ?" 

"  Of  you,  dear  guardian,"  was  Zoe's  candid  answer. 

"  And  why  of  me, — will  you  tell  me  ?" 

"  I  thought,  I  feared,"  she  began,  half  trembling  at 
the  prospect  of  what  lay  before  her  to  do,  ''  I  feared, 
s9$  that  you  were  unhappy.  You  are  so,  dear  Mr. 
Harvy,  you  are  unhappy,  and  I  am  the  miserable  cause ! 
I  know  it,  I  have  long  known  it."  She  hesitated. 

Just  then  the  dying  embers  shot  forth  a  last  flicker- 
ing flood  of  pale  light. 

It  shone  on  beautiful,  glowing  eyes,  a  glorified,  be- 
cause truthfully  earnest  face,  and  a  slight  form  stand- 
ing in  the  attitude  of  a  Lilliputian  queen  before  the 
arm-chair. 

The  gleam,  though  come  and  gone  in  an  instant, 
revived  Zoe's  courage. 

Mr.  Harvy  spoke  not  a  word. 

"  Dear  guardian,  oh,  do  riot  leave  Hazelwood  !  I  am 
unworthy  so  generous,  so  noble  a  sacrifice !" 

"  Sacrifice !  Zoe,  you  know  nothing  about  it !  What 
8* 


186  ZOE    BELL'S    BIRTHDAY. 

can  you  have  to  do  with  my  going  away  ?  There  is 
but  one  thing  that  can  change  my  determination,  and 
that  is  not  under  my  control." 

"  Is  it  under  mine,  sir  ?"  asked  a  low,  pleading  voice. 
There  was  no  reply. 

"  I  do  not  deserve  to  be  nearer  or  dearer  to  you  than 
I  am,  but, — if  a  life  of  earnest  devotion  can  ever  repay 
your  kindness,  it  is  yours !  I  feel  my  unworthiness 
deeply,  but  I  know  you  love  me, — I  know  you  are 
leaving  your  home  for  my  sake  ;  dear  Mr.  Harvy,  I 
would  prevent  you  if  I  can !  May  I  ?" 

I  regret  to  say,  that  Mr.  Harvy 's  precise  answer  is 
not  on  record. 


SHALL  I  write  of  the  happiness  that  the  events  of 
Zoe  Bell's  birthday  gave  to  all  the  inmates  of  Hazel- 
wood? 

Shall  I  tell  of  the  ever-increasing  devotion  of  the 
gay  young  wife  to  her  quiet  and  noble  husband  ;  how 
their  days  glided  by  in  peace,  disturbed  for  a  time  by 
the  grief  that  came  to  them  from  a  little  grave,  and 
then  flowed  on  in  unruffled  contentment  ? 

No,  I  will  leave  my  story  as  it  is.  Only  with  the 
actual  events  of  Zoe  Bell's  Birthday  has  my  pen  to  do, 


ZOE   BELL'S  BIRTHDAY.  187 

and  surely  none  would  have    me   meddle  with   that 
which  concerns  me  not. 

All  I  may  add  is,  that  happiness  and  kind  fortune 
descended  to  the  lot  of  Zoe,  the  beloved  wife  of  Philip 
Harvv. 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  STORY. 


"  I  SAID  to  Sorrow's  awful  storm, 

That  beat  against  my  breast, 
Rage  on — thou  may'st  destroy  this  form, 

And  lay  it  low  at  rest ; 
But  still  the  spirit  that  now  brooks 

Thy  tempest,  raging  high, 

Undaunted  on  its  fury  looks 

With  steadfast  eye. 

I  said  to  cold  Neglect  and  Scorn, 

Pass  on — I  heed  you  not ; 
Ye  may  pursue  me,  till  my  form 

And  being  are  forgot ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  which  you  see 

Undaunted  by  your  wiles, 
Draws  from  its  own  nobility 

Its  high-born  smiles." 

DURING  one  of  my  city  rambles  to-day,  I  saw  in  a 
a  large  shop- window,  a  picture  of  Christ. 

It  was  exquisitely  painted ;  but  it  was  not  mere 
admiration  of  an  artistic  blending  of  colors  that  caused 
me  to  pause  and  look,  tearfully,  on  the  beautiful  crea- 
tion ;  and  there  was  something  of  unearthly  beauty  in 


190  AN     OLD     MAN    S     STORY. 

that  glorious  head.  The  sorrowful  gleam  of  those 
noble  eyes,  as  they  were  turned  heavenward, — the 
mingled  resignation,  faith,  humility,  and  love,  resting 
expressively  on  the  lips,  parted  in  physical  agony, 
smote  me  with  awe  and  holy  pity. 

I  have  come  home  now  with  a  heart  chastened 
from  dull  repining ;  I  no  longer  feel  the  poor  suffering 
creature  that  I  once  thought  myself — I  realize  as  I 
never  realized  before,  that,  compared  with  the  agony 
of  His  thorny  paths  in  life,  my  grief  is  as  a  drop  of 
water  to  the  fathomless  ocean. 

Complaint,  henceforth,  I  will  put  far  away  from  me, 
and  murmurs  against  the  Divine  Will  shall  never 
more  pass  my  lips.  If  /  have  found  my  lot  hard  to 
bear,  puny  as  it  is,  what,  oh !  what  were  the  matchless 
sufferings  of  Christ  crucified  ? 

Something  impels  me  to  give  my  history  to  the 
world. 

Not  that  I  desire  fame  or  compassionate  sympathy, 
but  that  men  may  learn  of  me  pity  for  their  fellow- 
creatures. 

I  am  an  old  man  now,  as  my  gray  hairs  too  plainly 
tell  me,  and  I  shall  write  dispassionately  of  all  those 
bygone  events,  from  very  feebleness  of  age. 

Early  left  alone  in  the  world,  there  are  few  things 
that  I  can  remember  of  my  home  or  my  parents.  My 
mother,  I  know,  was  beautiful ;  her  features  were  cast 


AN    OLD    MAN'S   STORY.  191 

in  the  delicate  Grecian  style,  and  her  eyes  seemed  like 
dreams  of  blue  sky ;  but  I  can  recall  her  image  very 
faintly.  Once,  I  recollect,  she  took  me  with  her  to 
evening  prayers,  in  the  large  old  cathedral  where  she 
worshipped.  Holding,  childishly,  by  her  hand,  I  re- 
member staring  in  amazement  at  the  vast  building, 
fragrant  with  incense,  and  glittering  with  lamps,  that 
shed  fitful  light  on  the  antique  paintings,  the  golden 
altar  ornaments,  and  the  flowing  robes  of  the  sono- 
rous-voiced priests. 

I  seem  to  feel,  even  now,  the  childish,  but  romantic 
valor  that  glowed  through  my  being,  when  my  mother 
made  me  kneel  on  the  cold  marble  flagging  of  the 
cathedral  aisle,  as  the  solemn  and  noble  chaunts  up- 
rose to  heaven.  The  dim  beauty,  the  glory  of  those 
shadowy  arches,  filled  me  with  grand  desire  to  become 
something  in  the  world ;  and  yet  I  know  not  how  my 
boyish  aspirations  discovered  connection  between  reli- 
gion and  heroism,  or  found  in  the  former  incentive  to 
the  latter. 

I  am  a  descendant  of  a  reviled  and  persecuted  race. 
Although  my  features  and  person  bear  no  impress  of 
my  origin,  I  have  ever  been  avoided  as  one  contami- 
nated and  unworthy  of  intercourse  with  men  whom 
accident  has  given  a  purer  descent;  purer  it  may- 
be in  blood,  but  not  in  actual  nobility  of  body  and 
soul. 


192  AN    OLD    MAN'S    STORY 

My  mother's  grand-parents  were  American  slaves ; 
my  father  claimed  descent  from  the  African  race,  in  a 
still  more  remote  degree ;  neither  father  nor  mother 
having,  personally,  any  of  the  characteristics  of  that 
people. 

Both  were  free,  and  my  mother  was  a  lawfully  wed- 
ded wife. 

I  began  the  world  with  the  determination  and 
earnest  hope  to  overcome,  at  least  so  far  as  concerned 
myself,  the  prejudice  existing  against  the  race  from 
which  I  sprung.  I  vowed,  by  a  life  of  honor  and 
integrity,  to  win  to  myself  esteem,  respect,  and  the 
sincere,  manly  friendship  of  my  fellow-beings. 

I  have  had  the  blessing  of  a  thorough  and  enlighten- 
ed education ;  for  the  small  fortune  that  my  father 
accumulated  (and  accumulated  amid  struggles  and  suf- 
ferings, but  with  a  beautiful  and  daring  faith,  that  his 
trials  were  not  to  be  in  vain,)  was  more  than  sufficient 
to  meet  the  expenses  of  my  youth. 

In  the  hopeful  dawn  of  my  manhood,  I  did  not 
dream  of  the  bitterness,  the  weariness  of  spirit,  my 
vain  desire  to  rise  was  to  cause  me. 

I  did  not  know  then,  as  I  know  now,  that  the  op- 
pressed of  this  world  are  to  remain  oppressed  forever. 
I  did  not  know  that  aspirations  for  a  better  and  higher 
state,  if  they  spring  from  one  like  myself,  are  to  be 
crushed  as  so  much  sin,  to  the  earth,  which  is  at  last 


AN    OLD   MAN'S   STORY.  193 

the  home  of  both  lofty  and  low ;  the  noble  and  the 
ignoble  alike. 

In  my  daily  business  life,  humiliations,  which  I  can 
scarcely  now  brook  naming,  met  me  on  every  side ; 
and,  by  an  exquisite  arrangement  of  the  laws  of 
honor,  resentment  was,  by  my  birth,  placed  out  of  my 
power. 

Once,  goaded  into  fury  by  a  bitter  taunt,  that  the 
humanity  of  my  nature  made  hard  to  endure,  I  strode 
to  my  lodgings,  and  going  before  the  mirror,  with  a 
haughty  tread,  looked  at  my  reflection. 

"  Am  I  deformed  ?"  I  cried, — "  am  I  hideous  or 
loathsome,  that  men  revile  me  thus  ?"  But  the  straight, 
proud  figure  I  beheld  was  that  of  a  fair-faced,  erectly, 
handsome  man,  in  the  prime  of  his  years,  a  man  the 
stifled  beauty  of  whose  life  none  knew.  Then,  con- 
scious that  there  was  no  mark  of  Cain  upon  my  fore- 
head, that  I  was  not  vile  to  the  sight,  I  fell  "upon  my 
knees,  and  wept  passionately,  the  wild,  delirious 
prayer — 

"  Oh  God !  why  was  I  born — why  was  I  created 
with  this  stain,  making  me  impure  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
though  I  have  striven  to  be  pure  in  Thine  ?  How 
long,  oh  Lord,  how  long  ?  Oh,  take,  this  burdensome 
life  from  me,  or  give  me  something  to  make  it  valua- 
ble. I  hate  the  daylight,  I  hate  myself, — have  mercy 
upon  me,  a  miserable  sinner !" 


194  AN    OLD    MAN'S    STORY. 

After  years  of  unwearied  degradations,  I  concluded, 
that  in  a  life  of  more  retired  labor,  I  might  escape 
from  the  ills  that  had  so  far  followed  the  workings  of 
my  young  ambition,  for  not  only  had  it  proved  goal- 
less, but  the  friendships  I  sought,  failed  me,  and  the 
peace  I  desired,  came  not.  I  would,  I  thought,  give 
up  my  vain  hopes — thenceforth  seek  to  be  nothing, 
and  thus  avoid  the  unmerited  opprobrium  of  those 
with  whom  my  natural  talents  unfortunately  placed 
me  on  a  level. 

J  sought,  and  obtained,  employment  in  quiet  coun- 
try villages ;  but  wheresoever  I  went,  the  story  of  my 
birth  followed.  I  was  like  one  afflicted  with  a  terri- 
ble disease,  and  was  shunned  as  though  contagion 
were  in  my  breath. 

Had  I  never  sought  to  rise  from  the  sphere  of 
action,  generally  assigned  to  men  of  a  descent  similar 
to  my  own,  all  this  would  never  have  been.  But  let 
me  ask,  my  reader,  if  such  servile  modes  of  life  could 
satisfy  a  human  being,  with  a  whole  heart  full  of  God- 
like impulses,  and  a  brain  all  aglow  with  conscious  in- 
tellect ? 

Finding  myself  avoided  among  men,  a  savage  hate 
took  possession  of.  my  soul.  With  the  same  intensity 
with  which  I  had  once  longed  for  sympathy  among 
minds,  elevated  and  refined  as  my  own,  I  now  loathed 
the  mere  idea  of  social  intercourse. 


AN    OLD   MAN'S    STORY.  195 

I  fled  from  my  fellows,  and  lived,  for  many  years,  a  • 
vagabond  life  in  the  woods  of  the  back  countries,  find- 
ing precarious  subsistence  on  wild  game  and  fruits. 

The  romance  of  this  strange  existence  pleased  and 
refreshed  me,  and  in  my  gloomy  despondency  its 
manifold  discomforts  appeared  trifles,  compared  to  the 
mental  sufferings  I  had  previously  endured. 

For  years  I  had  no  associates  but  my  hunting  dogs 
and  my  nightly  fire.  For  the  latter  especially  I  en- 
tertained an  enthusiastic  affection  ;  it  seemed  akin  to 
my  own  wayward  and  impetuous  disposition.  It  was 
to  me  both  friend  and  benefactor  ;  sitting  or  sleeping 
by  its  cheerful  blaze,  I  felt  that  I  was  not  without  com- 
panionship. My  fierce  nature  received  it  as  a  fitting 
object  on  which  to  expend  its  wealth  of  morose  love. 

As  I  glowered  over  its  warm  and  flowing  flame,  on 
cold,  dreary  nights,  I  understood  the  tales  of  castaways 
on  desert  lands,  who  have  been  said  to  love  fire  with 
worship  of  idolatry;  I  know  how  to  appreciate  the  glad 
gratitude  they  have  felt  for  this  inanimate  sharer  of 
their  solitude. 

Often  as  I  watched  the  long  streams  of  light,  like 
fiery  tongues  darting  through  the  darkness  of  gloomy 
evenings,  I  danced  and  shouted  as  exultantly  as  though 
I  had  indeed  won  myself  a  friend,  despite  the  bitter 
world  I  had  left,  as  I  thought,  forever. 

There  came  to  me  many  moments   of  peace  and 


196  AN   OLD   MAN'S  STORY     . 

•  comparative  happiness  during  this  long  exile,  but  to- 
wards its  close,  there  were  mingled  with  them  much 
discontented  repining,  at  the  unnatural  lot  which  ne- 
cessity, not  choice,  had  brought  me  ;  and  as  time  rolled 
away,  I  could  not  conceal  from  myself  that  I  panted 
for  the  touch  of  kindly  human  hands,  and  thirsted  after 
the  love  even  of  one  of  the  most  despised  of  created 
souls. 

Gradually  this  longing  desire  filled  my  whole  being, 
and  turned  my  hitherto  quiet  joys  into  mere  mockeries 
of  the  reality.  The  solitude  that  had  once  yielded  re- 
pose to  my  wounded  spirit,  wearied  and  fatigued  me ; 
and  my  depression  of  mind  would  at  last  have  ended, 
I  doubt  not,  in  raving  insanity,  had  not  an  accident 
suddenly  removed  its  cause. 

Hunting  one  day,  in  a  hilly  portion  of  the  country 
that  was  rapidly  being  settted,  I  heard,  as  I  thought,  a 
cry  for  help.  On  hastening  to  the  open  road,  I  beheld 
a  man  striving  to  raise  his  horse  from  the  ground 
where  it  had  fallen,  writhing  in  the  agonies  of  death. 
Had  he  been  a  gentleman  in  appearance,  my  misan- 
thropic nature  would  have  impelled  me  to  leave  the 
spot  without  rendering  him  assistance ;  but  the  whiten- 
ed meal- sacks  in  his  wagon,  and  his  own  flour-be- 
sprinkled attire,  proved  to  me  that  he  was  merely  a 
miller,  journeying  to  market  with  his  goods. 

I  advanced  towards  him,  and  offered  all  the  aid  in 


AN    OLD  MAN'S    STORY.  197 

my  power  towards  extricating  his  horse  and  procuring 
a  substitute,  and  by  other  unconscious  proofs  of  good- 
will, so  won  his  favorable  opinion,  that  in  reply  to  my 
earnest  inquiries  regarding  the  facility  of  obtaining 
employment  in  the  neighboring  villages,  he  offered  me 
the  then  vacant  place  of  a  day-laborer  in  his  own  mill. 
With  great  gratitude  at  the  prospect  of  escape  from 
the  woods,  and  my  hunter's  life,  I  accepted  his  offer, 
poor  as  it  would  have  seemed  to  me  at  any  other  time. 

A  few  days  saw  me  fairly  installed  in  the  situation. 

On  the  banks  of  a  small  fresh-water  stream  that 

takes  its  sparkling  course  among  the  hills  of  N , 

and  at  length  comes  gurgling  and  dashing  through  the 
salt  meadows,  till  it  meets  and  mingles  with  the  bright 
river  beyond,  still  stands  that  antiquated  and  half- 
ruined  mill.  It  is  built  in  a  hollow  of  much  rural  and 
picturesque  beauty,  at  the  feet  of  these  lofty  hills. 
Venerable  trees  nod  and  whisper  over  the  decaying 
walls,  and  the  brook  that  then  turned  the  wheel,  glit- 
ters in  the  distance  like  a  long  bright  vein  of  silver. 

For  awhile  I  lived  there  happily. 

It  was  there  that  I  dreamed  the  vainest,  but  most 
beautiful  dream  of  my  life,  and  there,  too,  I  awoke 
from  my  delusion. 

Ruth  Say  was  by  no  means  a  woman  to  excite  the 
admiration  of  the  multitude.  She  was  good,  sweet 
and  gentle,  and  it  was  only  among  those  who  knew  her 


198  AN    OLD    MAN'S   STORY. 

well,  that  her  unobtrusive  amiability  made  her  beloved. 
She  was  scarcely  pretty,  but  as  I  look  back  upon  the 
period  when  she  was  all  in  all  to  me,  I  feel  that  beauty 
was  needless. 

Never  in  all  my  life  had  I  aspired  to  the  love  of 
woman.  I  had  put  the  thought  always  from  me  when- 
ever it  occurred,  for  I  felt  I  had  no  right  to  ask  any 
human  being  to  share  such  a  fate  as  mine. 

When,  however,  I  saw  sweet  Ruth  Say  fading  away 
with  a  hopeless  passion  at  her  heart's  core  for  me, — 
when  I  beheld  at  my  feet  a  jewel  I  had  never  hoped 
to  possess,  my  whole  soul  was  drawn  towards  her,  and 
I  forgot  the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  that  hitherto  had 
actuated  me ;  I  had  no  power  to  put  lightly  aside  the 
whole  life-time  of  happiness  offered  me  through  her 
love. 

She  was  my  employer's  eldest  child,  and  although 
placed  at  the  head  of  his  large  family  of  little  ones,  she 
was  not  yet  twenty-two  years  of  age. 

I  offered  Ruth  my  heart  and  hand,  and  with  the  full 
approbation  of  her  father,  it  was  arranged  that  we 
were  to  be  married  in  the  ensuing  autumn. 

During  the  time  that  intervened,  Ruth  became  dearer 
to  me  than  my  hopes  of  heaven. 

I  could  not  bring  myself  to  tell  her  what  I  really 
was.  I  could  not  repeat  to  her  the  hateful  secret  that 
hitherto  had  blasted  the  promise  of  my  life,  and  yet  my 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    STORY.  199 

mind  was  torn  by  the  consciousness  of  the  wrong  I 
was  doing  by  withholding  it. 

One  cold  spring  night,  as  we  sat  together  at  the  mill- 
fireside,  something 

" in  her  aspect,  and  her  eyes," 

prompted  me  to  confess  all.  We  were  alone.  As  I 
watched  in  painful  suspense  the  conflicting  emotions 
that  my  recital  had  awakened,  and  which  the  light  of 
the  cheerful  fire  revealed  on  her  face,  I  felt  that  her 
love  was  shaken  by  my  revelation ;  I  saw  that  pride, 
outraged  perhaps  by  the  long  delay  of  that  confession, 
was  weakening  the  affection  in  which  I  so  gloried. 

I  threw  myself  at  her  feet ;  I  wept,  as  only  strong 
men  can  weep,  over  the  threatened  desolation  of  all  I 
held  dear,  and  implored  her  not  to  cast  me  away  ut- 
terly. 

"  Ruth,  Ruth  Say,"  I  cried,  "  on  you  depends  all  the 
hopes  of  my  life-time  ;  take  them  away, — wring  them 
from  me,  and  you  convert  me  into  a  demon.  Ruth, 
Ruth,  I  love  you — you  are  the  dearest  thing  to  me  on 
earth !  I  love  you  as  never  yet  woman  was  beloved 
of  man.  May  I  love  you,  Ruth — may  I,  oh,  may  I  ? 
There  is  no  stain  on  my  soul,  no  dishonor,  no  shame  !" 

She  gasped,  and  was  silent.  I  covered  her  hands 
with  kisses,  for  something,  I  know  not  what,  bade  me 
hope.  She  repulsed  me  with  dignity,  and  though  she 


200  AN    OLD   MAN'S    STORY. 

trembled  like  a  reed  in  the  wind,  said  with  bitter  calm- 
ness— 

"  Why  was  I  not  told  this  before  ?  why  have  you 
permitted  me  to  love  you  all  this  time  in  darkness  ? 
Oh,  Stephen !  may  God  pity  us  both,  for  both  will 
need  it !  I  can  never  marry  you !" 

Her  sweet  wild  eyes  shot  forth  glances  of  proud 
scorn,  as  she  swept  from  my  grasp,  and  left  me  alone 
by  that  mill-fireside. 

A  long  time  I  sat  there  in  the  darkness,  and  ponder- 
ed over  her  words. 

My  heart  was  filled  with  bitterness.  I  thought  her 
unjust — cruel ;  even  as  I  had  thought  all  the  world  be- 
fore. 

But  never  once  did  I  harbor  the  passionate  regret, 
"  I  would  that  I  had  never  loved !" 

I  had  no  desire  to  undo  the  past.  Though  humbled, 
I  had  once  been  happy ;  and  even  to  save  myself  from 
present  misery,  I  would  not  have  foregone  the  memory 
of  that  happiness. 

In  the  midst  of  my  reverie,  my  ear  was  startled  by 
a  strange  and  inexplicable  sound  without  the  mill.  I 
paused,  listened  attentively  to  the  dull,  surging  noise, 
and,  in  mute  wonder,  tried  to  imagine  whence  it  pro- 
ceeded. 

The  night  was  uncommonly  beautiful,  and,  perhaps, 
it  seemed  more  so,  from  the  fact  of  its  being  the  first 


AN     OLD     MAN'S     STORY.  201 

clear  evening  for  weeks ;  the  country  having  been 
visited  with  violent  rain  storms.  The  air,  until  now, 
had  been  calmly,  solemnly  still.  Was  it  a  sudden 
gust  of  wind  in  the  old  trees  around  the  mill  that  thus 
broke  upon  that  silence  ? 

On — on  it  came — louder,  stronger,  and  fiercer ! 

At  first,  it  had  seemed  like  the  low,  solemn  flow  of 
a  giant's  hymn,  now,  it  shrieked  and  roared  with  the 
fury  of  a  newly-awakened  tempest.  I  felt  something 
dash  with  a  mighty  shock  against  the  western  side  of 
the  mill ;  assailed  by  a  tumult  of  forebodings,  I  flew 
to  the  window,  threw  up  the  casement,  and  looked 
out.  I  thought  of  the  late  prolonged  rains  as  I  did  so, 
and  of  the  swollen  mountain  streams,  and  in  a 
moment  realized  my  worst  apprehensions ;  for  by  the 
pale,  struggling  light  of  the  early  moon,  I  beheld, 
far  and  near,  a  beating  tossing,  surging  waste  of 
water ! 

I  felt  the  very  foundations  of  the  mill  shake  with, 
the  force  of  the  torrent,  and  for  a  moment  I  despaired 
of  the  resistance  of  the  walls. 

I  beheld  trees  and  shrubs  giving  way  like  insignifi- 
cant reeds,  before  that  black,  onward-rolling  water, 
and,  as  I  looked,  realized  acutely  the  mere  nothingness 
of  humanity. 

I  rushed  from  the  room  to  alarm  the  household,  and 


202  AN   OLD   MAN'S    STORY. 

provide  for  the  safety  of  Ruth  Say ;  my  only  thought 
was  of  her ! 

Consternation  and  dismay  reigned  throughout  the 
rest  of  that  terrible  night. 

During  all,  the  moon  shone  forth  as  brightly  and 
coldly,  as  though  it  lighted  not  the  path  of  the  destroy- 
ing angel. 

The  flood  did  not  abate  as  the  morning  neared.  It 
became  but  too  evident,  that  the  banks  of  some  of  the 
mountain  lakes  had  given  way  with  the  accumulations 
of  the  late  rains,  and  an  inundating  tide  of  death  was 
flowing  upon  the  lonely  mill- hollow  ! 

With  the  daylight  came  attempts  at  rescue  from  the 
affrighted  villagers. 

A  boat  was  sent  to  take  us  from  the  already  half- 
fallen  ruin ;  but  before  it  reached  the  mill,  it,  and  its 
brave  rower,  perished  in  the  whirling  torrent.  We 
could  see  the  dismay  depicted  on  the  anxious  faces 
that  crowded  the  river's  edge  as  the  boat  went  down, 
so  near  were  we  to  them. 

Within  view  of  safety,  and  hourly  expecting  des- 
truction !  Every  effort  that  man  could  make,  was 
made  to  save  us,  yet  the  sun  sank  that  day,  and  found 
us  still  awaiting  rescue  or  death.  Ropes  were  thrown 
to  us  with  provisions,  but  escape  from  the  mill  by  the 
same  means  was  found  impracticable. 

******* 


AN     OLD     MANS     STORY.  203 

In  the  darkness  of  the  succeeding  night,  there  came 
to  me  a  happy  thought. 

I  called  to  the  assembled  multitude  beyond,  and,  re- 
ceiving a  wild  shout  of  answer,  bade  them  fling  me 
fresh  ropes,  and  a  large,  strong  basket. 

Aided  by  both,  I  had  soon  established  a  mode  of 
personal  communication  with  those  on  shore,  and 
myself,  made  the  experimental  passage  above  the 
water. 

Eagerly  I  returned,  overjoyed  at  the  success  of  the 
plan,  and  the  children  of  the  family,  one  by  one,  were 
removed  from  the  place,  until  there  remained  but  the 
miller,  his  eldest  daughter,  and  myself. 

It  was  in  vain  we  entreated  Ruth  to  go  next ;  she 
insisted  on  her  aged  father  being  placed  in  safety  be- 
fore herself. 

He  gave  her,  at  last,  a  fervent — oh !  how  fervent  an 
embrace,  stepped  into  the  basket,  and  was  rapidly 
drawn  over  the  torrent.  In  a  moment,  glad  shouts  on 
the  shore,  announced  the  aged  miller's  safe  arrival. 

Then,  once  more,  I  begged  Ruth  to  leave  the  mill. 

But,  once  more,  she  refused. 

Looking  at  me,  with  something  of  old  tenderness  in 
her  tones,  she  said,  beseechingly — 
"  You  first,  Stephen." 

"//"  I  exclaimed,  scornfully.  -"Of  what  use  or 
good  am  /  to  the  world  ?  Not  a  living  soul  will  regret 


204  AN    OLD   MAN'S   STORY. 

if  I  never  see  God's  day-light  again,  and  for  myself,  I 
care  not  how  soon  my  life  ceases.  I  have  lost  all, 
Ruth,  that  made  it  of  value — all,  all ! 

I  steadied  the  basket  with  one  hand,  and  with  a 
peremptory  gesture  of  the  other,  signified  to  her  to 
seat  herself.  She  obeyed,  mechanically.  Just  as  she 
began  to  move  from  the  tottering  mill- walls,  she  cried 
out  in  an  alarmed  voice,  that  was  prophecy  itself — 

"  Good  God  !  I  shall  never  reach  them  alive !  Ste- 
phen— oh,  Stephen  Lent,  save  me,  save  me  !  Where 
are  you — oh,  where  are  you — it  is  dark — Stephen — 
Stephen !" 

Even  while  she  spoke,  the  wall  to  which  the  rope 
was  attached,  fell  with  a  resounding  crash,  into  the 
black  abyss  of  rolling  water. 

To  this  day,  I  know  not  how  my  own  worthless  life 
was  preserved  amid  the  ruins.  They  told  me,  that, 
two  days  afterwards,  when  the  freshet  abated,  I  was 
found,  senseless,  half-buried  under  a  mass  of  the  fal- 
len wall. 

So  perished  my  only  earthly  love — so  died  Ruth 
Say,  in  the  pride  of  early  womanhood. 


AN   OLD   MAN'S   STORY.  205 

I  HAVE  scarcely  seemed  to  live  since  then.  I  have 
cared  for  nothing,  hoped  for  nothing.  Taunts,  sneers, 
and  unkindnesses  have  reached  me  not,  for  I  have  felt 
them  not. 

My  days  are  like  the  waves  of  the  ocean,  full  of 
unrest,  and  changeful  with  currents,  but  I  have  ceased 
to  heed  their  action ;  I  look  above  this  world's  influ- 
ences, leaning  upon  the  Rock  of  Ages. 

The  tale  of  what  men  call  my  shame,  ever  follows 
and  pursues  me,  like  a  phantom,  whose  shadow  must 
mix  with  mine  till  death ;  the  crime  of  ignoble  birth 
is  never  to  be  forgotten  or  forgiven. 

Many  compassionate  men  and  women  have  written 
of  the  innumerable  details  of  slavery ;  and  this  brief 
recital  of  the  trials  of  a  descendant  from  one  of  the 
most  oppressed  people  of  the  earth,  may  be  but  a  new 
expression  of  an  old  form  of  suffering. 

Laus  Deo  !  in  heaven  the  Jew  and  the  Gentile, 
bondman  and  free,  are  eternally  equal ! 


THE 


SWALLOWS  IN  MR.  PIP'S  CHIMNEY, 


"  CHIP,  chip  a  we-e-e-e  !"  twittered  the  swallows  in 
the  chimney. 

There  were  sweet  winds  afloat,  and  they  flowed 
with  almost  burdensome  fragrance  through  the  win- 
dows of  Obadiah  Pip's  little  parlor,  as  he  sat  there, 
one  afternoon,  fast  asleep  in  his  chair. 

It  was  a  small  and  shady  dwelling,  overhung  with 
green  trees,  and  surrounded  with  choice  shrubbery — 
shrubbery  not  trimmed  into  stiff  circumspectness,  but 
graceful  in  wild,  luxuriant  growth.  Just  within  the 
old  white-washed  fence,  stood  a  row  of  currant  bushes, 
laden  to  the  ground  with  their  ripe  scarlet  fruit,  and 
over  the  little  time-honored  porch,  crept  mingled  rose 
and  honey-suckle  vines,  whose  contrasted  sprays  hung 
in  thick  masses  upon  the  lattice-work. 

In  spite  of  his  great,  awkward  person,  and  clumsy 
bashfulness,  Obadiah  Pip  possessed  something  of  taste 
and  refinement.  One  could  see  that,  by  looking  at  his 
gardens,  flower  and  vegetable,  and  at  the  outward 
adornments  of  his  plain,  but  pretty  house. 


208       SWALLOWS     IN     ME.     Pip's     CHIMNEY. 

"  Chip  a  we-e-e-e !"  went  the  swallows  in  the  parlor 
chimney.  The  sound  awoke  Obadiah  from  a  profound 
sleep,  the  sweetness  of  which  a  day's  hearty  labor  had 
purchased.  He  half  arose,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  then 
slowly  settled  himself  back  again  in  his  chair. 

"  Chip,  chip  a  we-e-e-e-e !"  still  energetically  twit- 
tered the  swallows,  overhead,  and  at  last  they  put  an 
end  to  good  Obadiah's  nap.  He  stretched  himself 
lazily,  gave  a  cavernous  gape,  put  his  hands  under 
his  coat-tails,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  apartment,  thinking  of  the  three  years  he  had 
lived  a  widower  in  that  very  cottage, — the  cease- 
less "  chip,  chip"  of  the  swallows,  making  the  dreary 
stillness  of  the  room  still  more  solemnly  dismal. 
Then  he  went  to  the  glass,  between  the  windows,  and 
looked  at  his  reflection. 

"I  declare,"  soliloquized  he,  running  his  fingers 
through  his  hair,  "  it  is  time  I  put  an  end  to  Rosa's 
going  to  waste  !  She  wants  a  mother  to  look  after 
her ;  I  perceive  that  plainly.  Let  me  see  ; — it  is  three 
years,  within  a  week,  since  my  sainted  Susan  died  in 
this  very  room.  I  have  not  led  a  very  happy  life  in 
that  time,  I'll  acknowledge,  for  all  Susan  used  some- 
times to  say,  that  I, — dear  me !  nobody  sews  on  my 
buttons  like  Susan  did, — nobody  keeps  the  flies  off  me 
in  my  afternoon  naps, — poor,  poor  Susan  !" 

Stout  Mr.  Pip  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 


SWALLOWS     IN     MR.     PIP'S     CHIMNEY.       209 

"Curse  those  swallows — what  a  noise  they  keep 
up !  It  makes  me  feel  like  a  funeral.  I'll  shoot 
them — I  will !  I  don't  have  a  minute's  peace  of  my 
life !" 

Mr.  Pip  slammed  the  door  behind  him  and  went  in 
search  of  his  gun ;  but,  changing  his  mind,  concluded 
to  "  fix,"  and  ride  down  to  'Squire  Jonson's  to  inquire 
into  the  state  of  his  crops. 

Mr.  Jonson  had  three  unmarried,  plump,  and  pretty 
daughters. 

Arrayed  in  all  the  glory  of  a  "  Sunday-go-to-meet- 
in'  "  coat  and  trowsers,  with  the  addition  of  the  iden- 
tical white  vest  in  which  he  had  been  married  ten 
years  before,  and  which,  consequently,  was  not  of  a 
very  modern  pattern,  and  would  draw  under  the  arms, 
in  spite  of  the  most  strenuous  efforts  on  the  part  of 
the  wearer  to  keep  it  in  place,  Mr.  Pip  gently  trotted 
down  to  'Squire  Jonson's  on  the  back  of  old  Fire- 
Fly. 

Nothing  in  the  world  is  as  "soothing  to  the  temper 
as  a  ride,  just  at  sun-set,  over  even  and  tree-shaded 
roads.  Those  leading  to  Mr.  Jonson's  farm,  happened 
to  be  particularly  pleasant,  and  as  friend  Obadiah 
passed  slowly  along,  he  forgot  his  ill  humor  at  the 
swallows,  and  thought  only  of  his  intended  visit. 

To  tell  the  truth,  this  was  not  the  first  time  Mr.  Pip 
had  shown  an  interest  in  the  weal  or  wo  of  his  neigh- 

9* 


210       SWALLOWS     IN     MR.     PIP     S     CHIMNEY. 

bor's  crops.  For  several  weeks  past,  he  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  stopping  there  every  few  days,  not  unfre- 
quently  extending  his  call  so  far  as  to  partake  of  the 
evening  meal  with  the  family. 

Just  before  reaching  the  farm,  Mr.  Pip  saw  in  the 
distance,  the  carriage  of  Mr.  Jonson  issue  from  his 
gate,  and  proceed  in  the  same  direction  as  himself,  to- 
wards Meadowside.  As  he  beheld  this,  poor  Mr.  Pip's 
courage  evaporated  on  the  instant. 

"  How  on  earth,"  thought  he,  "  can  I  venture  near 
the  house  now  ?  Jonson  and  his  wife  are  going  down 
to  the  village ;  if  I  stop,  I  must  face  the  three  girls 
alone  !" 

He  tried  to  overcome  his  shy  horror  at  the  pros- 
pect, and  after  some  deliberation,  concluded  to  tie  his 
horse,  knock  at  the  door,  and  inquire  for  Mr.  Jonson, 
with  the  same  coolness  that  he  would  have  done  if  he 
had  not  just  seen  him  driving  away.  Accordingly,  he 
walked  up  the  neatly  pebbled  path,  and  rapped,  boldly. 
A  few  moments  elapsecl  before  the  door  was  opened, 
during  which  interval  a  half-suppressed  giggle  reached 
him  from  within. 

Mr.  Pip  was  on  the  point  of  taking  flight,  greatly 
alarmed  at  his  own  temerity,  when  the  knob  turned, 
and  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  youngest 
sister,  Miss  Mary  Maria. 

"  Oh — ahem,  how  d'y  do,    Miss  Jonson.      Is  your 


SWALLOWS     IN     MR.     Pip's     CHIMNEY.       211 

father  at  home.     I've  just  called  to  bring  him  some 
white  turnip-seed,  I  promised  him  last  week." 

Miss  Mary  Maria's  roguish  eyes  fairly  danced  with 
merriment,  as  she  said — 

"  Father  is  away,  Mr.  Pip — walk  in,  and  rest  your- 
self— you  must  be  fatigued  with  your  long,  dusty 
ride." 

As  she  spoke,  she  threw  open  the  door  of  the  par- 
lor. Mr.  Pip  required  no  second  invitation ;  he  followed 
her  in  very  bashfully,  and,  in  his  awkward  way,  drop- 
ped into  the  seat  nearest  the  door.  I  do  not  mean  to 
insinuate,  by  narrating  this  circumstance,  that  he  was 
preparing  for  a  hasty  retreat  in  case  of  necessity, — no, 
indeed,  Miss  Mary  Maria  was  too  young,  too  jolly,  too 
pretty,  for  such  an  idea  to  enter  his  head.  The  fact 
was,  he  was  quite  overcome  with  his  good  fortune  in 
seeing  the  young  lady  alone,  (for  of  the  three  sisters, 
he  liked  the  youngest  one  the  best,)  and  so  did  not 
know  exactly  what  he  did. 

Miss  Jons«n  was  a  rosy,  healthy,  country  beauty,  of 
about  twenty-three.  Her  eyes  were  deeply,  sunnily 
blue,  and  were  always  laughing  on  their  own  account, 
in  opposition  to  the  fay-like  sort  of  smile  that  flitted 
momentarily  across  her  lips,  coming  and  going  like  a 
sunbeam,  set  in  perpetual  motion.  Her  cheeks  were 
perfect  miracles  of  roundness  and  pinkness,  and  her 
face's  expression,  although  destitute  of  intellectuality, 


212       SWALLOWS     IN     MR.     Pip's     CHIMNEY. 

was  the  embodiment  of  everything  brightly,  sweet, 
and  mirthfully  happy. 

Miss  Mary  Maria  drew  a  rocking-chair  before  her 
unsuspecting  victim^  and, — I  am  almost  ashamed  to 
write  it, — deliberately  set  herself  to  work  to  bring  out 
some  acknowledgment  of  his  affection  for  her.  I 
wonder  if  there  ever  lived  a  woman  who  did  not  dis- 
cover she  was  beloved  before  her  lover  knew  it  him- 
self! 

Miss  Mary  Maria  had  been  aware  of  Mr.  Pip's 
secret  for  a  very  long  time,  and  as  she  herself  was  far 
from  being  indifferent  to  the  good,  but  uncultivated 
widower,  (particularly  as  he  was  the  only  marriageable 
man  in  the  neighborhood,)  she  determined  to  make  the 
most  of  the  present  interview. 

Her  father  and  mother  were  gone  to  bring  home 
her  two  elder  sisters  from  a  visit  in  Meadowside,  con- 
sequently the  opportunity  could  not  be  more  favora- 
ble. 

Be  it  known  that  both  these  sisters  h^d  openly  ex- 
pressed individual  and  separate  claims  to  Mr.  Pip's 
calls  and  attentions,  each  seeing  through  his  flimsily 
transparent  excuse  of  visiting  their  father, — each 
considering  herself  the  secret  object  of  his  shy  devo- 
tion. 

Mary  Maria  had  now  the  field  to  herself!  It  was 
this, — the  thought  of  triumph  over  her  sisters,  that 


SWALLOWS     IN     MR.     Pip's     CHIMNEY.       213 

filled  her  with  merriment,  and  gave  her  zest  in  pursuit 
of  the  bashful  vyidower. 

They  commenced  with  discussing  the  weather. 
Mr.  Pip  said  it  was  delightful,  and  using  this  original 
remark,  as  a  starting  point,  they  soon  branched  off 
into  a  promising  conversation,  which,  however,  I  am 
constrained  to  say,  was  principally  sustained  by  the 
lady. 

If  ever  a  pretty  little  woman  took  pleasure  in  tortur- 
ing her  lover,  that  little  woman  was  Miss  Mary  Maria ! 
She  led  poor  Mr.  Pip  into  all  sorts  of  arguments,  and 
after  twisting,  turning,  and  bewildering  him,  and  mak- 
ing him  say  what  he  hadn't  the  slightest  idea  of  say- 
ing, ended  the  debate,  by  maliciously  causing  him  to 
contradict  himself!  Every  moment,  Mr.  Pip's  cour- 
age lessened.  He  felt  he  never  could  speak  what  he 
so  desired  Lo  say  to  the  little  creature  before  him. 
As  a  last  resource,  he  touched  upon  the  loneliness  of 
his  home.  . 

"  Miss  Mary  Maria,"  he  said,  and  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice  frightened  him,  "you  do  not  know  how 
dismal  my  house  is  becoming.  I  am  thinking  of 
moving.  Rosa  says  she  absolutely  hates  such  a  quiet 
little  den." 

"  Why  don't  you  get  a  wife  ?"  laughed  Maria,  half 
from  sheer  mischief,  half  to  help  him  along,  now  that 
he  appeared  coming  to  the  point. 


214       SWALLOWS     IN     MR.    rip's     CHIMNEY. 

Was  there  ever  a  better  chance  for  a  man  to  say 
"  will  you  marry  me  ?"  The  bewildered  widower 
really  could  not  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity. 
He  stammered  out  something  that  was  quite  inaudible 
blushed  scarlet,  and  dropped  his  eyes,  seemingly  for  the 
purpose  of  tracing  out  the  pattern  of  the  pretty  carpet. 

Miss  Mary  Maria  then  waxed  indignant.  I  wish  my 
reader  had  been  there  to  see  her  elevate  her  little  white 
shoulders,  and  slightly  curl  her  merry  upper  lip.  As 
the  afternoon  wore  on,  however,  and  the  arrival  of  her 
sisters  became  momentarily  to  be  expected,  her  vexa- 
tion declined,  but  every  attempt  she  made  to  bring 
Obadiah  upon  tender  grounds,  was  unsuccessful. 

At  length  she  began  to  despair,  seeing  plainly  all 
the  while  that  this  clumsy  widower  loved  her,  but 
great  bashfulness  delayed  his  avowal  of  the  fact. 

Through  the  openj  windows  came  the  sound  of 
wheels — in  a  few  minutes  more,  Miss  Mary  Maria's 
chance  of  matrimony  would  be  gone,  or,  -at  all  events, 
weakened.  Desperation  nerved  her  to  a  bold  and  de- 
cisive stroke. 

"  Mr.  Pip,"  she  said,  gazing  fixedly  in  his  eyes,  while 
the  sunbeam  danced  to  and  fro  upon  her  lips,  "Mr. 
Pip,  if  you  love  me,  for  gracious  sake,  why  don't  you 
say  so !" 

"  Bless  your  heart,  Miss  Mary  Maria,"  cried  the 
good  widower,  looking  greatly  relieved,  his  round  face 
blushing  in  alternate  streaks  of  pink  and  scarlet,  "  bless 


SWALLOWS     IN     ME.     Pip's     CHIMNEY.       2J  5 

your  heart,  there  is  not  another  woman  in  the  world 
that  I  could  love ! 


IT  was  at  the  close  of  a  very  lovely  day,  some  three 
weeks  afterwards,  that  Mr.  Pip  brought  home  his  little 
wife.  They  had  taken  a  brief  wedding  jaunt,  and 
were  now  to  settle  down  into  sober  and  common- place 
life.  Mrs.  Pip  was  the  same  laughing  little  woman  as 
ever.  The  dignities  of  matrimony  had  not  tamed  her 
down  one  jot, — her  laugh  was  more  silvery  and  ring- 
ing, and  the  sunbeam  brighter,  if  possible,  than  before. 

Rosa,  wild  child,  had  loved  her  mother  from  the 
very  first  day  she  beheld  her. 

As  they  sat  in  the  little  parlor,  the  evening  of  their 
arrival,  Rosa,  with  her  arms  around  Mary  Maria's 
neck,  quiet  Mr.  Pip  scarcely  knew  how  to  express  his 
great  joy  in  the  new  mistress  of  his  home.  He  took  his 
wife's  hand  within  his  own  in  his  tender  clumsy  fashion, 
and  was  just  stooping  to  touch  it  to  his  lips,  when — 

"  Chip,  chip,  a  we — e — e — e  !"  twittered  the  swallows 
in  the  chimney. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  asked  Mary  Maria,  half  startled. 

"  Only  the  twitter  of  some  swallows,  my  dear,"  re- 
plied her  husband,  "  and  if  it  is'nt  the  pleasantest  sound 
I  have  heard  this  year,  may  I  never  listen  to  another  !" 

And  so  the  swallows  to  this  day,  reign  undisputed 
in  Mr.  Pip's  chimney. 


THE  STORY  OP  HiGAR. 


"  Music  is  the  Art  of  the  Prophets  ;  it  is  the  only  Art  which  can 
calm  the  agitation  of  the  soul,  and  put  the  Devil  to  flight." 

MARTIN  LUTHER. 

"Then  a  glory  bound  her  forehead!, 

Like  the  glory  of  a  crown, 
As  in  the  silent  sea  of  death 

The  star  of  life  went  down." 

ALICE  CAREY. 

IT  was  Christmas  eve,  and  as  bright  and  beautiful  a 
night  as  ever  threw  its  shadow  over  this  old  earth  of 
ours.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the  sky  was  thick  with 
that  "  faint  cold  starlight,"  of  which  Shelley  writes  so 
musically  in  one  of  his  tenderest  songs. 

The  snow  lay  on  the  ground  to  a  great  depth,  and 
lately  as  it  had  ceased  to  fall,  the  night  was  bracingly 
clear,  just  as  on  a  merry  Christmas  eve  it  should  be ! 

How  the  cold  sound  of  the  farmer's  sleigh-bells  rang 
out  on  the  frosty  air,  jingling  together  in  musical  con- 
fusion, like  tribes  of  air-spirits  clamorous  for  a  hear- 
ing !  The  atmosphere  seemed  alive  with  the  sound, — 
far  and  near  it  echoed  from  the  white  hills.  The  very 


218  THE     STORY     OF     II AGAR 

horses  were  inspired  by  it,  and  pranced  over  the  crisp- 
ing snow,  frisking  their  long,  graceful  tails,  elevating 
their  ears,  expanding  their  nostrils,  and  looking  as  if 
they  understood  and  appreciated  the  unusual  liveliness 
of  the  scene. 

From  the  windows  of  the  ancient  farm-houses  of 
Briartown  came  streams  of  red  light  in  strong  and 
startling  contrast  upon  the  snow.  Dusky  figures 
moved  hither  and  thither ;  shouts  rose  and  died  away 
upon  the  wintry  breeze,  and  merry  voices  found  echo 
everywhere. 

Of  all  canvass  delineations,  give  me  a  snow-scene  ! 
I  reaily  believe,  (so  inspired  do  I  feel  by  the  mental 
contemplation  of  this  one,)  that  if  1  possessed  the  pow- 
er to  wield  the  brush  daintily,  I  might  at  this  moment 
sit  down  and  immortalize  myself.  Most  melancholy 
pity! 

Knee-deep  in  the  snow,  a  woman,  closely  mantled, 
wended  her  way  at  the  side  of  the  road.  She  was 
very  tall — in  fact,  almost  a  giantess  in  stature — and 
with  strides,  rather  than  steps,  trudged  rapidly  along. 
The  snow  gave  way  beneath  every  foot-fall,  yet  she 
did  not  abate  her  haste,  but  walked  as  though  her  feet 
disdained  all  that  they  touched. 

Once  in  a  great  while,  the  light  from  some  Christ- 
mas fire-side  fell  upon  her  face,  and  though  half  con- 
cealed by  a  close  woollen  hood,  its  savage  beauty,  its 


THE     3TORY    OF     HAGAR.  219 

stern  severity,  gleamed  out  upon  the  darkness,  startling 
those  who  passed  and  beheld  it. 

Alone,  and  at  night,  upon  those  roads  so  impassable 
for  foot  travellers ! 

It  was  a  strange  journey.  But  its  fatigues,  its  dan- 
gers did  not  appear  to  daunt  her.  Once,  a  compas- 
sionate farmer  stopped  to  offer  her  a  seat  in  his  sleigh  ' 
a  brief  gesture  of  the  hand  gave  him  rapidly  and  im- 
pulsively his  answer. 

Leaving  the  road,  she  at  length  struck  into  the  un- 
trodden moors.  Upon  those  desert  and  uninhabited 
commons  the  snow  had  drifted  thickly.  It  was  almost 
madness  to  attempt  a  passage  through  it,  but  directing 
her  steps  towards  a  light  that  shone  from  a  cottage  be- 
yond, she  passed  across  with  great  difficulty  to  the  lit- 
tle lane  on  which  it  was  situated. 

Arrived  there,  her  desperate  courage  seemed  to  fail 
her.  She  sat  down  upon  the  door-step,  and  buried  her 
head  in  her  hands,  retaining  this  position  for  more 
than  an  hour. 

Aroused  by  sounds  from  within,  she  at  length  rose 
and  knocked.  The  door  opened  almost  immediately, 
but  dazzled  by  the  flood  of  light  that  poured  into  her 
great  black  eyes,  she  did  not  at  first  recognise  James 
Kenworthy,  the  village  school-teacher. 

"  Come  in,"  said  James'  mild  voice,  as  he  stood  there 


220  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

holding  the  door  ;  "  come  in,  whoever  you  are.  The 
night  is  bitterly  cold." 

She  knew  his  voice  in  an  instant.  With  one  bound 
she  cleared  the  threshold,  and  knelt  before  him. 

"  James,  James  Kenworthy,  I  am  come  back  at  last. 
For  God's  sake  don't  spurn  me  !" 

He  made  a  movement  as  though  to  close  the  door 
upon  her.  His  face  writhed,  and  a  look  almost  amount- 
ing to  hatred,  shot  from  his  eyes. 

"  Good  God,  is  it  you,  YOU  !  Have  you  come  back, 
heaven-forsaken  creature,  to  mar  the  peace  of  my  old 
age,  as  you  destroyed  the  promise  of  my  manhood  ? 
I  thought  you  dead,  oh,  how  I  have  prayed  for  your 
death,  as  the  only  means  of  saving  you  from  farther 
sin!" 

Still  at  his  feet  the  proud  woman  cried,  "  Brother, 
I  have  never  sinned  against  myself.  My  tastes,  my 
desires  were  different  from  yours,  but  as  there  is  a 
Judge  in  heaven,  I  am  pure.  I  told  you  so,  long,  long 
ago,  but  you  would  not  believe  me.  I  have  little  to  be 
proud  of,  but  I  am  -proud  of  that.  My  life  has  been 
more  varied  than  yours.  I  have  lived  in  the  midst  of 
crime  and  temptations,  but  I  swear  to  you,  I  have 
passed  through  them  triumphantly. 

The  schoolmaster's  face  softened.  He  closed  the 
door,  but  did  not  attempt  to  raise  his  sister  from  her 
position.  Averting  his  eyes,  he  began  to  question  her. 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  221 

She  was  beautiful,  fiercely,  savagely  beautiful ;  perhaps 
he  was  wise  to  avoid  looking  upon  her  if  he  wished  to 
reason  calmly  and  dispassionately. 

"  Why  have  you  come  here,  Charity  ?  You  can- 
not stay — you  know  that,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  Oh,  James,  be  merciful !  I  want  to  live  with  you 
— I  want  to  be  your  sister  again.  I  have  exhausted 
every  happiness  that  the  world  offered  me — I  am 
utterly  miserable.  My  child,  and  you,  are  the  only 
two  beings  on  the  earth,  that  make  life " 

"Child,  Charity!  Good  God,  have  you  a  child? 
Oh,  my  heavenly  Father,  what  have  I  done  to  deserve 
this  shame !" 

The  poor  schoolmaster's  face  grew  purple.  He 
wrung  his  hands,  and  paced  the  room  with  hurried 
and  agonized  dismay.  . 

Over  his  sister's  features  there  passed,  too,  a  flood 
of  passion.  She  started  up. 

"  Shame,  James  !"  she  cried — "  shame  !  Did  I  not 
say  I  am  innocent  ?  Did  I  not  swear  it  ?  Look  at 
me — look  at  me,  and  then  cry  '  shame'  again  if  you 
dare !  Am  /  one  to  stoop  from  my  womanhood  ? 
Am  /  one  to  disgrace  my  sex  ?" 

She  drew  up  her  commanding  person,  and  gazed  at 
him,  the  fire  of  indignation  burning  in  her  eyes. 

He  was  subdued  in  a  moment. 

"  Who  would  marry  you  ?"  he  said,  bitterly,  yet 


222  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

half  apologetically, — "you,  a  he- wolf — a  man-devil — • 
an  actress !" 

"  Go  on,  brother." 

"  Who  would  take  a  sweet  creature  like  you  to 
wife — -who  could  love  you  ?" 

"  Brother — I  am  a  widow." 

He  paused,  evidently  softened.  "  Who  is  this  child, 
Charity — where  is  it — what  is  it  like  ?" 

"  She  is  at  school,  and,  like  you,  she  is  quiet  and 
gentle.  Her  name  is  Hagar." 

"  Spare  your  flattery.  You  will  gain  nothing  by  it. 
If  I  consent  to  take  you  to  live  with  me,  must  this 
girl  come  too  ?" 

"  Oh,  James,  James !  If  she  might — if  she  only 
might !  It  is  for  her  I  ask,  and  not  for  myself.  Be 
kind — be  generous — give  her  the  protection  of  your 
home  and  name.  It  is  not  support  I  want  for  either 
her  or  me — I  have  made  enough  by  my  profession,  to 
afford  an  elegant  living  if  I  chose  to  prefer  it.  It  is 
not  support  I  desire.  I  would  die  of  hunger  before  I 
asked  it,  after  leaving  you  as  I  did.  I  now  loathe  my 
life  as  an  actress — it  was  all  glare,  all  falsehood — and 
I  come  back  to  beg  your  aid  in  saving  my  child  from 
following  in  my  steps.  She  is  already  attracted  by 
the  romantic  illusions  of  the  stage,  and  I  would  have 
her  live  in  some  quiet  manner,  to  obliterate  her  recol- 
lections of  both  it  and  her  mother's  triumphs." 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  223 

"  Triumphs,  Charity  !    Were  you  successful,  then  ?" 

"  Yes.  Have  you  not  heard  of  me — have  you  not 
followed  my  fate  ?" 

"  No.     I  never  sought  to  do  so.     I  tried  to  forget 
you.    I  thought  you  dead — oh  !  would  that  you  were — 
would  you  had  died  in  your  cradle  !     A  play-actress 
With  what  horror  have  our  dead  parents  looked  down 
from  heaven  upon  your  self-chosen  destiny !" 

"  I,  too,  have  wished  myself  dead,  again  and-  again. 
God  knows  I  have." 

"  Charity  ?" 

"  Well,  James." 

"  On  one  condition,  you  and  your  child  shall  share 
my  home. 

"  Blessings  upon  you,  my  dear,  all-suffering,  forgiv- 
ing brother — blessings  fall  upon  you ;  may  your  hearth 
grow  brighter  and  happier, — it  shall  be  my  grateful 
study  to  make  it  so." 

"  You  must  promise,  solemnly,  Charity,  never  to  re- 
turn to  the  stage,  no  matter  what  circumstances  of 
poverty,  desire,  or  temptations  impel  you  to  it.  Pro- 
mise me,  Charity, — swear  it  upon  this  Bible,  once  our 
mother's." 

The  tall  and  beautiful  woman  stooped  to  the  little 
stand  that  her  brother  designated,  and  laying  her  large, 
white  hand  upon  the  Book,  said,  slowly  and  solemnly — 

"  I  swear." 


224  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAE. 

James  Kenworthy  appeared  satisfied.  He  drew  a 
chair  to  the  fire,  piled  on  some  fresh  logs,  and,  for  the 
first  time  during  his  sister's  visit,  asked  her  to  sit 
down. 

She  did  so.  It  was  long  before  either  brother  or 
sister  spoke  again,  both,  evidently,  being  busy  with 
their  own  thoughts.  James  was  the  first  to  break  the 
silence. 

"  Charity,  are  you  tired  ?" 

"  No,  brother." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  tell  me  something  of  your  life 
since  you  left  me,  years  ago  ?" 

"  Yes,  certainly.  It  is  eventful ;  but  few  words  will 
express  it." 

"  Begin  then,  sister." 

"  What  age  was  I  when  I  went  away,  James  ?  I 
have  forgotten." 

"  Seventeen  years  and  three  months." 

"  So  old  ?  Then  it  is  twenty  years  ago,  for  I  am 
now  thirty-seven." 

He  looked  at  her  with  covert  admiration,  and 
said,  simply — 

"  You  do  not  look  it." 

"  You  know,  brother,  I  was  always  a  wild  and  way- 
ward thing.  Our  still  life  used  to  gall  me.  It  eat  into 
my  very  soul  to  be  compelled  to  submit  to  it.  While, 
believing  in  your  heart,  that  you  were  winning  me 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAE.  225 

from  evil,  you  held  me  too  tight.  My  bonds  were 
more  than  I  could  bear,  you  know  how  I  broke 
them. 

"  I  possessed  uncommon  talent — don't  look  at  me 
so.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  it,  for  I  feel  that  I  have 
talent.  I  feel  it  here"  and  she  struck  her  breast, 
proudly. 

"  I  possessed  talent,  and  young  as  I  was,  I  became 
almost  crazed  with  my  lack  of  opportunities  for  im- 
provement. I  could  not  hush — I  could  not  deaden 
my  desire  for  knowledge.  Perhaps  you  remember 
how  eagerly  I  purchased  books  with  the  little  allow- 
ance mother  left  me.  For  awhile  they  satisfied  my 
longings ;  but  time  rendered  self-study  disagreeable, 
and  my  desires  and  hopes  all  fixed  themselves  on  a 
liberal  education  in  this  great  world,  which  you, 
James,  strove  so  vainly  to  make  me  fear. 

"  You  already  know,  how,  by  stealth,  1  attended, 
and  became  fascinated  with  the  performances  of  the 
strolling  companies  that  visited  our  village,  and  how, 
thenceforth,  my  ambition  flowed  in  new  channels. 
You  already  know,  that  mad  with  enthusiasm,  I  left 
my  home,  and  went  to  the  city  to  seek  for  employ- 
ment, by  which  to  qualify  myself  for  the  stage.  How 
long  ago  all  this  seems  to  me  ! 

"  By  hard  and  incessant  labor,  I  at  length  reached 
the  goal  for  which  I  panted — I  became  an  actress,  and 

10 


226  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

then,  James,  it  was  that  you  did  a  cruel  thing,  and 
cast  from  you  your  sole  relative — how  wrong,  how 
cruel,  God  alone  knows.  I  was  young — I  might  have 
fallen.  When  I  yielded  to  the  perverted  taste  that 
had  ripened,  by  the  unnatural  and  forced  calm  of  my 
life,  into  a  fixed  determination,  you  cast  me  off  from 
you,  as  though,  thenceforth,  there  were  poison  in  the 
air  I  breathed.  Oh,  James !  if  you  had  but  won  me 
to  you,  by  kindness,  without  sternness,  how  different 
might  we  both  have  been  ? 

"  And  was  /  the  only  sinning  one,"  demanded  the 
school-master,  bitterly, — "  was  there  no  wrong  in  you  ? 
was  there  nothing  to  exasperate  in  your  ingratitude 
and  base  desertion  of  home  ?  You  smothered  none  of 
your  feelings  and  desires  ;  was  1  to  smother  mine,  and 
take  you  to  my  arms,  fresh  from  the  disgrace  of  your 
calling  ?  Unfortunately,  I  am  flesh  and  blood.  I  fol- 
lowed you  and  implored  you  to  return ;  you  refused, 
and  in  righteous  indignation,  I  gave  you  up  to  the 
black  fate  you  chose." 

He  arose,  and  stood  before  her,  the  dim  candle  light 
playing  flickeringly  over  his  grave  and  agitated  coun- 
tenance. 

"  Charity,"  he  proceeded,  "  I  tell  you,  I  would  newer 
have  come  to  you  again,  even  if  summoned  to  your 
death-bed !" 

She  shuddered  slightly.     "  Enough,  brother,  enough  ; 


THE    STORY     OP    HAGAR.  227 

I  did  not  mean  to  irritate  you.  Sit  down  and  listen, 
for  it  grows  late,  and  I  must  go  soon." 

"  Go !  will  you  go  away  to-night !  you,  a  woman, 
and  alone  ?" 

Yes ;  I  fear  nothing  !  I  am  strong  and  able  to  de- 
fend myself.  I  must  go,  for  I  burn  to  reach  Hagar 
again.  I  cannot  leave  her  longer.  Since  my  hus- 
band's death  our  lives  have  been  as  one.  You  will 
love  her,  James,  I  am  sure  you  will." 

Her  brother  looked  compassionately  upon  her  as  he 
saw  the  slow  tears  gathering  in  her  dark  eyes.  She 
brushed  them  away  quickly,  and  continued — 

"  My  ultimate  success  was  brilliant.  I  did  not  burst 
on  the  world  as  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude.  I  had 
no  influential  friends  to  procure  me  a  proper  de'but. 
I  began  in  obscurity,  and  worked  my  own  way.  I 
took  the  humblest,  simplest  parts  as  a  beginning  ;  mis- 
erable as  they  were,  I  threw  my  soul  in  them,  and 
through  the  naturalness  of  my  delineations-  I  won  the 
attention  of  both  my  manager  and  my  audiences.  In 
a  brief  period,  I  attained  the  position  I  merited.  I  re- 
joice in  the  fact  of  being  self-made.  It  is  my  pride, 
my  greatest  source  of  satisfaction,  my  glory  !  Oh, 
James,  what  can  equal  the  moral  grandeur  of  that  man 
who,  arrived  at  greatness,  can  nobly  face  his  fellows, 
and  utter  those  majestic  words, — '  I  am  self-made  !' 

"  One  of  the  reasons  of  my  success  was,  I  think,  in 


228  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

my  peculiar  mode  of  acting.  You  know  I  am  all  fire 
and  energy.  Nothing  ever  has,  nothing  ever  can 
daunt  me.  My  acting,  they  said,  was  like  myself, — 
there  was  in  it  no  tameness  nor  constraint.  Unlike 
other  actresses,  I  have  never  studied  more  of  my  char- 
acters than  the  mere  w'ords, — the  gestures,  the  impulse, 
the  passionate  burst,  were  totally  unpremeditated,  and 
were  all  left  to  the  spur  of  the  moment.  My  positions, 
with  regard  to  my  fellow  players,  of  course,  for  their 
accommodation,  had  to  be  studied  and  rehearsed  ;  but 
I  can  safely  say,  James,  that  inspiration  did  the  rest. 
Never  in  my  whole  theatrical  life,  have  I  twice  enact- 
ed a  part  exactly  alike.  On  this  was  founded  my 
triumphs. 

"  I  was  about  twenty-five  when  I  married  Charles 
Harrington  White.  He  had  been  one  of  my  first 
managers,  and  my  gratitude  for  his  kindness  and  en- 
couragement, when  I  was  poor,  friendless  and  fame- 
less,  became  the  groundwork  of  the  affection  which 
he  afterwards  won  from  me.  If  ever  man  loved 
woman,  he  loved  me.  From  trials  incident  on  my  pro- 
fession, he  shielded  me ;  from  temptations,  he  protected 
me,  and  finally  from  my  life  of  excitement,  he  with- 
drew me  to  domestic  happiness. 

"  I  had  hoped  you  knew  of  my  marriage.  Although 
I  wrote  to  you  to  inform  you  of  it,  and  you  returned 


THE     STORY     OP     II  A  G  A  R  .  229 

my  letters  unopened,  I  trusted  you  might  hear  of  it 
otherwise. 

"  Shortly  after  Hagar's  birth,  my  husband  died. 
Through  utter  want  I  was  compelled  to  go  on  the 
stage  again.  I  did  so  with  absolute  loathing,  for  it  had 
grown  hateful  to  me.  But  I  had  either  to  work  or 
starve.  My  youth,  or  at  least  that  which  is  unjustly 
esteemed  youth  in  woman,  was  gone,  and  the  first 
bloom  of  a  fresh  genius  had  left  me  too.  My  acting 
grew  different  from  what  it  once  had  been.  What  it 
lacked  none  knew  but  myself;  all  admired,  all  prof- 
fered me  eager  praises,  but  sorrow  thenceforth  took 
the  beauty  of  soul  from  my  impersonations.  I  was 
offered  engagements  far  and  near.  I  accepted,  fulfilled 
them,  and  gradually  acquired  a  competency. 

"  It  was  for  Hagar  I  toiled,  not  for  myself.  Had  I 
not  desired  to  enrich  her,  I  would  have  chosen  the 
lowest  servitude  rather  than  a  new  theatrical  ca- 
reer. 

"  I  know  not  what  more  there  is  to  tell  you,  brother, 
beyond  the  mere  chances  and  changes  attendant  on 
my  public  life.  Those  it  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  ; 
I  know  it  would  disgust  you,  as  much  as  pain  me  to 
speak  of  them.  I  come  to  you,  a  worn,  heart-sick 
woman,  to  ask  for  shelter  and  brotherly  love — the  love 
which  in  early  days  of  wilfulness  I  deserted.  Heaven 
will  bless  you,  James,  for  granting  it  to  me.  From  the 


230  THE     STORY     OF     H  A  G  A  R . 

bottom  of  my  heart,  I  feel  it  is  more  than  I  de- 
serve." 

She  rose  from  the  fire,  drew  her  cloak  around  her, 
and  turned  to  depart. 

James  Kenworthy  followed  her  to  the  door,  and 
opened  it  for  her. 

"  Good  night,  Charity,"  he  said  kindly,  "  come  back 
to  your  old  home  and  welcome, — come  back  with  your 
little  child,  and  lead  a  new  and  purer  life.  God  be 
with  you." 

"  Good  night,  my  own  true-hearted  brother." 

"  Are  you  not  afraid,  Charity  ?  A  few  hours  can 
make  little  difference  in  your  purpose  ;  stay  where  you 
are  until  morning, — do  not  go,  Charity,  I  beg  of  you." 

"See  here,  brother."  She  partly  threw  off  her 
cloak,  and  bared  a  great  white  arm  to  the  shoulder. 
"  I  have  defended  myself  with  this  before  now.  I  can 
do  it  again.  But  I  do  not  think  there  is  anything  to 
dread.  I  came  here  from  the  railroad  station  on  foot, 
(because  I  will  not  uselessly  waste  a  penny  of  the  for- 
tune I  destine  for  Hagar,)  and  not  a  soul  spoke  to  me, 
save  in  kindness.  A  train  leaves  at  daylight ;  I  shall 
just  return  in  time  for  it.  Good  bye,  James.  You 
have  made  me  very  happy." 

She  had  walked  a  few  rods  upon  the  snow,  when  he 
called  her  back. 


THE     STORY    OP    HAGAR.  231 

"  One  word  more,  Charity,   before  you  leave  me. 
This  child,  this  daughter  of  yours, — is  she  handsome  ?" 
"  No,  brother." 
"  Thank  'God  !  That  is  all.     Good  night." 

THE  old  man,  for  he  was  some  twenty  years  his  sis- 
ter's senior,  turned  again  to  his  desolate  fireside,  and 
sat  down  before  the  dying  embers,  to  muse  over  the 
strangeness  of  this  visit.  He  was  mild  and  gentle 
looking,  and  appeared  almost  infirm  from  the  effects  of 
care  and  sorrow.  The  wrinkled  lines  of  his  face  were 
strongly  marked,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  drawn 
into  that  unmistakable  expression  of  discontent,  which 
so  often  stamps  the  face  of  "an  unhappy  man.  His  sis- 
ter's conduct  had  been  the  disgrace  of  his  life.  It  had 
embittered  his  peace,  and  brought  gray  hairs  upon  him 
in  youth.  James  and  Charity  Kenworthy  were  born 
and  bred  in  a  family  of  rigid  Methodists.  Their  pa- 
rents had  been  the  chief  supporters  and  upholders  of 
that  sect  in  Briartown.  When  they  died,  Charity  was 
given  into  her  brother's  care,  for  he  was  a  man  grown 
at  the  time.  In  endeavoring  to  do  his  duty  as  faith- 
fully towards  her,  as  he  knew  would  best  have  satisfied 
his  sternly  religious  parents,  he  very  nearly  broke  her 
spirit.  But  her  high  temperament  could  not  long  en- 
dure such  treatment;  as  she  said  herself,  her  bonds  were 
more  than  she  could  bear. 


232  THE     STORY     OF     H  A  G  A  R  . 

It  was  late  that  night  before  the  good  man  retired 
to  rest,  and  even  then  only  at  the  earnest  solicitations 
of  his  old  housekeeper,  who,  unaware  of  his  sister's 
visit,  was  sorely  puzzled  to  know  what  had  come  over 
her  kind  master. 


GREAT  was  the  village  scandal  when  it  was  known 
that  the  school-teacher's  sister  had  turned  from  the 
evil  of  her  ways,  and  was  come  to  live  in  the  midst 
of  her  early  acquaintances.  As  with  one  accord,  an 
edict  went  out  against  her ;  her  old  friends,  the  bosom 
companions  of  her  youth,  passed  her  by  in  the  streets 
without  recognition.  At  church,  James  Kenworthy's 
pew  was  the  beheld  of  all  beholders — the  weird-like 
and  gigantic  face  of  his  sister,  drew  all  eyes  upon  it ; 
but  none  in  pity — none  in  compassion,  or  encourage- 
ment. 

Oh  !  is  not  woman's  justice  to  woman  a  disgrace  to 
her  name  ? 

Charity  was  sensible  of  her  slights,  but  she  was  too 
proud  to  show  it.  No  one  could  have  guessed  from 
the  expression  of  those  defiant  features,  what  agony 
of  spirit  lay  beneath.  A  stranger  might  have  imagin- 
ed, from  her  haughty  tread  and  majestic  carriage,  that 
she  was  an  empress  in  disguise,  native  nobility  dis- 
covering itself  in  spite  of  attempted  concealment. 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  233 

James,  too,  bitterly  felt  the  peculiarity  of  his  sister's 
position.  According  to  his  stern  principles,  her  recep- 
tion in  the  village  appeared  but  the  just  punishment 
of  heaven ;  but  inasmuch  as  it  glanced  upon  himself, 
he  found  it  difficult  to  endure,  and  none  but  himself 
knew  the  sacrifice  he  made  in  so  enduring  it. 

One  by  one  his  pupils  dropped  away.  The  school, 
from  being  a  scene  that  gratified  his  good  heart,  by  a 
display  of  intelligent  faces,  became  at  last  so  scantily 
attended,  that  his  labors  ceased  to  have  attractions. 
Charity  was  not  aware  of  this.  If  she  had  known  it, 
her  generous  nature  would  at  once  have  impelled  her 
to  leave  the  place,  and  the  shelter  of  his  roof. 

Little  Hagar  came  under  the  same  ban.  Her 
mother  seldom  allowed  her  go  from  her ;  but  when  she 
did,  the  poor  child  was  equally  destitute  of  playmates. 
If  she  were  sent  on  errands  to  the  village,  it  was  a 
pitiful  thing  to  see  the  longing,  wistful  glances  she 
cast  on  groups  of  children  at  play  along  the  roads, 
and  to  hear  the  taunts  they  flung  at  her  as  she  passed. 
Desolate  and  sensitive,  she  had,  indeed,  a  hard  lot,  and 
yet  she  did  not  really  know  whence  it  arose.  She  was 
too  young  at  first  to  understand  the  ignominy  that 
bung  over  her  mother's  name.  It  was  not  long  in 
dawning  upon  her. 

James  Kenworthy  had  learned  to  love  Hagar  very 
10* 


234  THE     STORY     OF     HA  GAR. 

strongly.  As  her  mother  said,  she  was  good  and  gen- 
tle. Her  voice  was  so  sweet  and  thrilling,  that  in  the 
long  evenings  he  would  sit  for  hours  to  listen  to  it. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  child  had  a  natural  gift  of  song. 
From  the  time  she  rose  till  the  sun  sank  behind  the 
western  hills,  music  perpetually  floated  around  her. 
But  her  voice  was  untaught,  and  so  it  was  but  a  rough 
flow  of  wild  and  uncultivated  melody. 

One  afternoon,  as  Charity  and  her  daughter  were 
sitting  on  the  little  piazza  in  front  of  the  schoolmaster's 
cottage,  awaiting  his  return  from  his  day's  labor,  they 
saw  the  minister,  Mr.  Vane,  and  his  wife,  coming  up 
the  lane.  Charity,  as  I  have  said,  was  very  proud, 
and  equally  intolerant  of  words  of  reproof  or  exhorta- 
tion. 

This  was  the  first  time,  since  her  return,  that  the 
minister  had  called,  and  she  immediately  conjectured 
that  the  visit  was  meant  for  her  especial  benefit. 
When  the  aged  couple  reached  the  porch,  she  receiv- 
ed them  coldly  and  haughtily.  The  gentle  old  man 
did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  surprised  at  his  welcome, 
and,  while  his  wife  entered  into  a  conversation  with 
the  ceremonious  mother,  he  began  a  merrier  one  with 
the  open-hearted  child. 

Mrs.  Vane's  manners  were  so  cordial,  and  her 
language  so  unassuming  and  ladylike,  that  Charity's 
grandeur  melted  before  her.  When  the  visitors  rose 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  235 

to  go,  Charity  actually  found  herself  thanking  them 
for  their  visit. 

"Mrs.  White,"  said  the  old  pastor,  as  he  took  her 
hand,  "  we  have  come  to-day  to  ask  a  favor  of  you. 
Mrs.  Vane  and  myself  have  noticed  for  some  time  the 
gradual  spread  of  a  feeling  of  unsociability  among 
the  brethren  and  sisters  of  our  congregation ;  we  very 
earnestly  desire  to  overcome  it ;  will  you  aid  us  ? 
To-morrow,  some  few  of  them  intend  spending  the 
evening  at  our  house, — dear  Mrs.  White,  my  Charity 
of  old  days,  will  you  come,  and  give  them  an  oppor- 
tunity to  desire  your  friendship?" 

Charity  shook  her  head.     "  You  know  I  am  proud, 
Mr.  Vane.     I  would  rather  not  stoop  to  such  an  ex- 
periment.    The  forced  companionship  of  people  who 
despise  me  in  their  hearts,  could  only  give  me  pain." 
"Well,  little  Hagar  then — may  Hagar  come  ?" 
Charity  looked  at  her  daughter,  hesitatingly.     Ha- 
gar's  eyes  were  bright  with  desire  to  go.     Her  mother 
could  not  resist  their  pleading,  and  satisfied  the  kind 
old  couple  by  giving  the  required  permission. 

When  James  came  home  he  was  very  glad  that 
Charity  had  thus  opened  a  way  for  the  formation  of 
acquaintances,  for  his  lonely  little  pet,  and  very 
thankful  for  the  thoughtfulness  of  his  minister. 

The  next  day,  just  at  nightfall,  arrayed  in  a  tiny 


236  THE     STORY     OF     II  A  G  A  R . 

white  dress,  decked  with  blue  ribbons,  Hagar  accom- 
panied her  uncle  to  the  parsonage. 

She  was  not  the  least  bit  a  beauty.  Her  features 
were  roughly  irregular,  and  her  hair  of  an  undeniable 
sandy  brown.  Like  every  one  else,  however,  she  had 
a  redeeming  point,  and  that  was  her  eyes.  They 
were  very  dark,  very  lustrous,  and  gave  a  gentle  and 
lovely  expression  to  the  whole  face.  In  form  and 
countenance,  in  genius  and  spirit,  Hagar  was  very 
different  from  her  magnificent  and  fiery  parent.  If 
not  so  beautiful,  she  was  far  more  loveable ;  if  not  so 
talented,  she  was  destined  to  make  a  better  woman. 

That  evening  at  the  parsonage  influenced  the  whole 
of  the  after  life  of  little  Hagar  White. 

Seated  at  her  uncle's  side,  the  child  looked  around 
her  as  in  a  pleasant  dream.  The  kindness  she  experi- 
enced from  every  one,  was  altogether  a  new  thing  to 
her.  She  had  been  accustomed  to  the  sneers  and  re- 
vilings  of  the  village  children  for  so  long,  that  a 
gentle  word  from  a  stranger  was  doubly  valuable  to 
her.  The  attractions  of  that  home-like  tea-table 
scene,  too,  were  many,  and  the  music  afterwards 
seemed  to  her  fervid  imagination  to  be  the  perfection 
of  sweet  sounds. 

Mrs.  Vane's  little  drawing-room  was  rich  in  one 
particular — a  modern  and  splendidly-toned  piano-forte 
occupied  one  of  its  recesses.  It  was  such  a  length  ot 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  237 

time  since  Hagar  had  seen  or  touched  a  piano,  that  on 
this  one  she  looked  with  positive  awe,  the  ivory  keys 
gleaming  before  her  eyes  like  so  many  dancing  fairies. 
Just  before  the  company  broke  up,  a  little  old  man, 
whose  odd  and  changeful  face  had  been  a  source  of 
amusement  to  the  child  during  the  whole  evening,  sat 
down  before  the  instrument  to  perform.  With  many 
affectations  of  manner  and  gesture,  he  struck  the  first 
few  chords,  which  opened  at  once  into  a  perfect  wil- 
derness of  harmony.  As  he  proceeded,  his  eccentrici- 
ties vanished ;  earnest  glances  shot  from  his  eyes,  and 
his  face  shone  with  a  strange  light.  Young  as  Hagar 
was,  she  instinctively  felt  that  the  queer  little  gentle- 
man was  improvising.  An  irresistible  sympathy  im- 
pelled her  to  leave  the  obscure  corner,  where  she  had 
been  sitting  during  the  evening,  and  stand  by  him 
while  he  played  that  marvellous  piece  of  inspiration. 

It  was  really  a  fine  thing,  and  full  of  true  and  actual 
beauties.  No  false  positions,  no  inartistic  arrange- 
ment were  there ;  it  was  pure,  unadulterated,  legiti- 
mate music.  Now  those  short  brown  fingers  created 
a  whirlwind,  then  they  awoke  soft  winds  astir  in  sum- 
mer woods,  and  the  next  moment  fashioned  a  little 
simple  melody  that  carried  tears  to  every  listener's 
eyes.  Hagar  wept  and  laughed  alternately.  It  seem- 
ed to  her  she  ha^  never  before  heard  music  so  like 
language. 


238  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

God  bless  music !  It  is  a  language, — a  divine  and 
beautiful  form  of  speech  between  man  and  heaven. 

When  the  queer  little  musician  had  finished,  he  turn- 
ed to  leave  the  piano,  and  as  he  did  so,  beheld  Hagar 
standing  at  his  elbow,  her  hands  clasped  together  in  a 
transport  of  delight,  and  tears  still  glittering  on  her 
cheeks.  The  old  man  was  touched.  Scarcely  know- 
ing what  he  did,  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead. 
It  was  long  since  the  unknown  and  poor  musician  had 
met  with  the  like  genuine  appreciation. 

How  a  man  of  such  decided  and  educated  genius 
had  chosen  to  reside  in  that  remote  village,  I  am  una- 
ble to  say, — perhaps  poverty  had  something  to  do  with 
the  matter,  for  he  was  one  of  those  friendless  Germans 
who  come  to  us  from  Europe,  and  oftentimes  pine 
away  their  entire  lives  in  obscurity  and  neglect. 

"  Well,  child,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  German  accent, 
"  have  you  been  listening  ?  How  did  you  like  it,  eh  ?" 

"  Oh,  sir,"  cried  Hagar,  vehemently,  forgetting  alike 
where  she  was,  and  to  whom  she  was  speaking,  "  oh, 
sir,  will  you  not  play  again  ?" 

With  a  nod  of  satisfaction  towards  Mr.  Vane,  who 
was  standing  near  and  observing  the  scene,  the  little 
man  began  to  play.  This  time  it  was  a  brilliantly 
pretty  trifle  of  a  polka.  It  was  short  and  soon  done. 
Hagar  listened  breathlessly,  but  whe^n  he  stopped  and 
looked  to  read  in  her  childish  face  its  expression  of 


THE    STORY     OF     HAGAR.  239 

approval,  he  only  saw  depicted  quiet  but  keen  disap- 
pointment. 

"  Eh !  well,  don't  you  like  it  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  Yes,  sir — yes, — oh,  yes,"  stammered  the  little  girl, 
"  but  the  first  was  better,  it  was  grand,  oh,  so  grand  !" 

The  man's  face  lit  up  in  an  instant.  He  seized  the 
child  by  the  arm,  roughly  pushed  back  from  her  fore- 
head her  heavy  locks  of  hair,  a"nd  examining  her  ear- 
nestly, exclaimed,  much  to  Mr.  Vane's  amusement — 

"  Why,  the  girl  has  got  music  in  her,  and  the  right 
kind,  too !" 

James  Kenworthy  now  joined  the  group.  He  had 
not  been  an  unobservant  spectator  of  Hagar's  enthu- 
siasm. 

"  Come,  Hagar,"  he  asked,  "  before    we  go,  cannot 
you  sing  for  Mr.  Vane  that  little  song  of  your  mo 
thers  ?" 

He  spoke  with  some  pride,  for  he  knew  his  darling 
had  a  sweet  voice,  and  he  desired  that  Mr.  Van  Dyke, 
the  eccentric  German,  should  hear  it. 

Without  demur,  and  just  where  she  stood,  Hagar 
began  singing.  It  was  a  wild  fragmentary  ballad, 
that  had  been  much  admired  in  her  mother's  youth, 
but  was  then  neither  popular,  nor  deserving  of  popu- 
larity. Unhesitatingly,  she  sang  it  with  all  the  child- 
like innocence  of  her  heart,  and  that  alone  caused  it  to 
touch  those  of  her  audience. 


240  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

In  a  silent  group  they  gathered  around  her,  little 
sprite  as  she  was,  and  not  one  man  or  woman  of  the 
company  looked  on  her  fragile  form  and  inspired  face 
without  feeling  that  she  was  destined  for  high  things. 

My  remembrance  of  Hagar  White's  voice,  even  as  a 
child,  is  like  that  of  a  rich  and  mellow  flute.  There 
was  something  in  it,  I  know  not  what,  that  appealed  ir- 
resistibly to  the  sympathies, — it  was,  in  fact,  what  is 
called  a  sympathetic  voice, — round,  full,  and  clear  as 
any  bell.  Hagar  had  also  that  gift  of  perfect  intona- 
tion which  almost  renders  a  disagreeable  organ 
pleasant. 

When  the  child  finished  her  simple  lay,  there  reigned 
profound  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Mrs.  Vane  was 
the  first  to  break  it,  and  her  words  of  commendation 
sank  deeply  into  Hagar's  heart. 

Shortly  after,  the  guests  began  to  take  their  de- 
parture. No  one,  however,  had  generosity  enough  to 
invite  Hagar  to  visit  in  their  families ;  the  prejudice 
against  her  mother  being  too  strong  to  be  thus  easily 
overcome.  The  child  herself  was  too  overflowing 
with  ecstatic  happiness  to  notice  this,  but  her  uncle  did, 
and  to  him  it  was  an  acute  disappointment.  He  had 
hoped  that  her  retired  gentleness  would  have  done 
away  with  all  displeasure  against  herself;  it  was  des- 
tined otherwise. 

While  Hagar  was  gone  to  fetch  her  bonnet,  little 


THE     STORY     OF    HAGAR.  241 

Mr.  Van  Dyke  came  up  towards  James  Kenworthy 
and  Mr.  Vane,  who  were  talking  together,  and  very 
shyly  and  awkwardly  (for  he  was  only  great  as  a  mu- 
sician) asked  if  Hagar  had  ever  attempted  the  actual 
study  of  music. 

"  She  has  talent,"  said  he,  twirling  together  his 
stubby  thumbs,  "  and  as  one  who  has  had  experience 
in  these  things,  I  advise  that  she  should  be  placed  at 
once  under  instruction.  How  old  is  your  niece,  Mr. 
Kenworthy  ?" 

"  Nearly  twelve,"  said  James,  smiling.  "  I  think  her 
rather  too  young  to  deal  with  the  musty  part  of  the 
science  just  yet." 

"  Too  young,"  echoed  the  little  man,  with  an  amus- 
ing display  of  indignation,  "  my  dear  sir,  I  tell  you 
that  the  most  successful  musicians  are  those  who  begin 
to  prepare  for  the  profession  in  babyhood." 

"  But  she  is  not  destined  for  the  profession,"  replied 
the  schoolmaster,  with  another  smile ;  "  because  a  bird 
sings  is  no  reason  it  should  be  caged." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Kenworthy,"  cried  Mr.  Van  Dyke, 
as  he  made  an  excruciatingly  comical  bow  at  the  door, 
"  my  dear  Mr.«  Kenworthy,  it's  in  her,  and  it  will  come 
out !"  uttering  which  prophecy,  he  closed  the  door, 
but  the  next  moment  opened  it  again,  and  introducing 
his  odd  and  badly-proportioned  head,  said — 

"  If  ever  you  change  your  mind,  sir,  remember  that 


242  THE     STORY    OF    HAGAR. 

I  herewith  offer  my  services.  It  will  give  me  pleasure 
to — to —  "  and  without  finishing  his  sentence,  the  good 
little  man  shut  the  door  and  departed. 

There  was  not  much  sleep  for  Hagar  that  night. 
She  had  not  felt  as  happy  since  she  and  her  mother 
had  resided  in  the  village. 

For  days  after,  Mr.  Van  Dyke's  majestic  creation 
rang  through  her  brain,  its  bewildering  harmonies  giv- 
ing zest  and  new  impulse  to  her  dull  existence. 

Charity  was  not  long  in  discovering  the  cause  of  the 
change  that  had  taken  place  in  her  daughter. 

Her  step  was  more  buoyant,  and  her  discontentment 
with  the  quiet  of  Briartown  less  apparent,  for  Hagar 
had  never  liked  it.  Rejoiced  at  some  prospect  of 
making  her  happier  in  her  position,  Charity  soon  de- 
cided that  she  should  take  music  lessons. 

"Not  of  old  Mr.  Van  Dyke,  however,"  said  she, 
with  her  usual  impetuosity,  when  she  was  discussing 
the  subject  with  her  brother.  "  I  won't  have  the  child 
patronized  by  any  miserable  German  pipe-smoker  on 
earth.  To  think  of  his  offering  to  instruct  her  without 
payment !  I  will  teach  him  better !  She  shall  take  les- 
sons of  the  highest-priced  and  best  instructor  in  Briar- 
town." 

"  And  that  will  turn  out  to  be  Mr.  Van  Dyke  him- 
self, I  am  afraid,"  remarked  James,  laughing.  "  I  do 
not  think,  sister,  that  he  meant  anything  but  kindness 


THE    STORY    OF    HAGAR.  243 

to  Hagar.  He  was  evidently  taken  with  her  voice, 
and  told  me  openly  that  she  had  talent. 

"  Of  course  she  has !  but  that  is  no  reason  he  should 
be  the  one  to  cultivate  it." 

When  the  subject  was  mentioned  to  Hagar,  her  joy 
knew  no  bounds.  She  danced  about  the  house  in 
perfect  glee,  alternately  caressing  her  mother  and  her 
uncle,  to  whom  she  had  latterly  grown  much  attach- 
ed ;  as  for  the  schoolmaster  himself  lie  could  not  have 
felt  a  more  tender  affection  for  her  had  she  been  his 
own  child. 

An  instrument,  of  superior  manufacture,  was  at 
once  ordered  from  an  adjacent  city,  (for  Charity  was 
munificent  in  all  that  concerned  her  daughter,)  and 
before  it  had  been  in  the  house  three  days,  Hagar  be- 
gan a  regular  course  of  study,  under  little  Mr.  Van 
Dyke,  her  childish  persuasions  proving  irresistbile  as 
to  his  engagement. 

Several  years  passed ;  they  were  the  happiest  of 
Hagar's  life. 

By  earnest  devotion  to  the  art  she  loved  so  well,  she 
was  becoming  a  good  musician, — to  make  a  really  great 
one,  a  much  longer  period  is  scarcely  sufficient. 

Hagar's  genius  was  peculiar.  She  never  attained 
much  perfection  in  instrumental  music ;  it  wearied, 
without  absolutely  interesting  her.  Melody,  and  not 
harmony,  was  her  glory ;  yet  she  played  tolerably,  and 


244  THE     STORY     OP     HAGAR. 

in  her  knowledge  of  the  science  itself,  did  brilliant 
honor  to  her  master. 

Never  before  had  a  pupil  so  delighted  Mr.  Van 
Dyke  as  she  did,  by  cordial  application  and  quick  per- 
ception of  the  spirit  of  his  instructions. 

During  all  these  years,  Hagar  remained  friendless 
and  companionless.  Although  entering  woman's  es- 
tate, she  had  not  a  young  acquaintance  in  Briartown. 
Perhaps  it  was  better  that  it  should  be  so.  Com- 
munion with  the  small  minds  of  an  obscure  village, 
would  but  have  shackled  and  depressed  her  own. 

About  ten  miles  from  Briartown  was  the  country- 
seat  of  the  Randolphs,  a  wealthy  family  who  resided 
there  during  the  summer  months. 

They  were  known  far  and  near,  for  their  haughti- 
ness, their  exclusiveness,  and  their  charity. 

Universally  disliked  by  the  farmers,  whose  own 
ideas  of  pride  were  continually  wounded  by  them  ; 
only  among  the  very  poor  were  the  Randolphs  be- 
loved. 

Mrs.  Martyn  Randolph,  the  widowed  head  of  the 
family,  was  a  stern,  cold,  but  benevolent  woman. 
Although  she  refused  all  intercourse  with  the  neigh- 
bors around  Randolph  Farm — although  she  declined 
the  slightest  approach  to\vards  an  acquaintance,  she 
was  a  frequent  visitor  in  the  houses  of  those  strug- 


THE     STORY     OF     UAGAR.  245 

gling  against  sickness  or  poverty.  There,  she  was  all 
kindness,  all  gentleness,  and  full  of  thought  for  the 
alleviation  of  distress.  I  do  not  think  she  was  one  of 
those,  called  professional  reformers — those  who  go 
about  doing  good  for  every  other  reason  than  the 
right  one. 

She  was  really  and  truly  a  charitable  woman ;  un- 
bending and  haughty  to  those  she  deemed  beneath  her 
in  position  or  education,  but  an  angel  of  mercy  to  the 
suffering  and  needy. 

In  her  own  right,  Mrs.  Randolph  was  wealthy,  and 
her  husband's  property  was  so  bound,  that  only  at  her 
death  could  it  descend  to  her  children. 

She  had  one  daughter,  and  some  three  or  four  sons, 
all  of  whom  were  being  educated  in  the  severest  man- 
ner. Every  accomplishment  that  she  deemed  light  or 
trifling  was  denied  them  by  the  stern  lady ;  her  daugh- 
ter had  never  laid  eyes  on  a  French  verb,  although 
both  she  and  her  brothers  spoke  the  Latin  tongue  with 
tolerable  fluency.  The  eldest  son  was  just  leaving 
college,  a  model  in  his  mother's  sight  of  all  that  was 
great  and  noble. 

Randolph  Farm  was  charmingly  situated.  None 
could  excel  it  in  magnificence  of  prospect  over  land 
and  water.  The  mansion  itself  was  erected  on  an 
eminence  near  the  banks  of  the  ,  and  com- 
manded a  fine  view  of  its  winding  course  for  many 


246  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

miles  beyond  where  its  blue  waves  laved  the  rocky 
shores  of  Briartown.  The  grounds  immediately  sur- 
rounding, were  laid  out  after  the  English  system, 
drives,  walks,  and  artificial  lakes,  being  introduced 
wherever  they  were  deemed  necessary  for  effect. 

On  occasional  elevations,  the  trees  were  felled,  to 
allow  views  of  the  surrounding  country,  of  the  dis- 
tant hills,  blue  and  hazy  from  remoteness,  of  the  nearer 
ones,  looming  up  in  gigantic  loveliness,  or  of  those 
bright  waters  flowing  outward  to  the  main,  skirted 
alternately  by  the  white  house-tops  of  villages,  and 
dark  masses  of  wild,  tangled  woodland. 

It  was  the  perfection  of  an  American  country-seat. 
The  soil  was  rich,  and  the  brushwood  foliage  almost 
too  savagely  luxurious  for  healthy  beauty.  All  that 
wealth  and  taste  could  do  to  keep  the  place  in  good 
condition,  was  bountifully  exercised. 

The  late  Mr.  Martyn  Randolph — much  to  his  wife's 
horror — had  been,  in  his  time,  something  of  a  sporting 
character.  During  his  life,  the  stables  were  always 
well  filled  with  animals  of  the  rarest  and  most  valuable 
breeds  ;  but  comparatively  few  of  them  now  remained, 
and  his  sleek  hunting-dogs  wagged  their  huge  tongues 
in  spiritless  inactivity. 

The  grounds  were  plentifully  stocked  with  deer  and 
various  smaller  game.  Since  Mr.  Martyn  Randolph's 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  247 

decease,  by  his  lady's  orders,  the  report  of  a  rifle  had 
never  alarmed  their  security. 

Jacqueline  Eandolph,  the  daughter,  was  a  tame,  in- 
offensive girl,  of  about  eighteen.  Her  mother,  by  un- 
natural severity,  had  reduced  her  to  a  state  of  such 
dead  passiveness,  that  many  deemed  her  stupid.  A 
greater  mistake  was  never  made.  Quiet  good  sense, 
and  many  observant  faculties,  were  among  her  store 
of  brain-possessions,  while  her  heart  was  equally  rich 
in  unobtrusive  goodness. 

Jacqueline  had  but  one  passion  in  the  world,  and 
that  was  for  music.  From  childhood  she  had  lived 
and  thriven  on  it,  and  at  eighteen  she  was  a  very 
passable  instrumentalist.  Between  Hagar  and  Jacque- 
line, there  arose  a  sincere  and  cordial  friendship,  from 
the  first  moment  that  they  met,  as  students,  under  Mr. 
Van  Dyke.  As  Hagar  was  the  old  man's  best  pupil, 
in  voice-management,  so  was  Jacqueline  his  most  for- 
ward and  tasteful  player. 

Hagar  was  almost  a  woman  before  they  knew  each 
other.  At  first,  she  refused  the  entreaties  of  her  friend 
to  visit  her,  for  the  older  she  became,  the  more  sensi- 
tive she  felt  about  her  own  and  her  mother's  position. 
Every  day  exaggerated  it  in  her  eyes ;  from  long  en- 
durance of  disdainful  neglect,  the  poor  girl  had  begun 
to  fancy  she  was  unworthy  of  anything  else.  Besides, 
her  proud  mother  infused  the  idea  into  her,  that  the 


248  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

rich  should  make  the  first  advances,  when  they  desired 
the  society  of  the  humble ;  and  as  Jacqueline  had 
never  done  so,  by  calling  at  the  cottage,  the  acquaint- 
ance rested  where  it  began. 

Chance,  and  an  odd  adventure,  brought  them  nearer 
together. 

James  Kenworthy's  health,  for  the  last  two  or  three 
years,  had  been  gradually  failing.  His  sedentary  mode 
of  life,  had  sown  the  seeds  of  a  consumption,  that  was, 
by  painful  degrees,  developing  itself  in  his  system. 

Growing  slowly,  but  surely  weaker  and  weaker,  he 

«^- 

was  obliged,  finally,  to  give  up  his  labors  at  the  school- 
house — Charity's  little  fortune  necessarily  becoming 
the  support  of  the  whole  household.  Then  it  was  that 
the  real  loveliness  of  Charity's  character  developed 
itself. 

The  most  feminine  of  women  were  never  gentler 
nurses  at  a  sick  bed  than  she.  The  tenderness  of  her 
patient  devotion  to  her  brother  was  pleasant  to  be- 
hold, and  her  unwearied  care  over  his  dying  bed,  a 
tearful  proof  of  her  gratitude  for  all  his  forbearance 
and  unwavering  kindness,  although  she  never  knew 
the  half  of  them. 

A  generous  man  is  one  of  the  most  god-like  of  hu- 
man creatures  ; — a  man  not  merely  generous  of  gold, 
but  of  sacrifices  of  self.  James  Kenworthy  was  both. 


THE     STOEY     OF     HAGAR.  249 

His  was  the  charity  that  "  vaunteth  not  itself,"  but 
leaves  a  shining  track  in  secret  places. 

Late  one  afternoon,  Hagar  being  much  exhausted 
with  incessant  watching  at  her  uncle's  side,  (it  was 
during  the  last  few  weeks  of  his  existence,)  gave  up  her 
post  to  her  mother,  and  went  out  for  a  brief  taste  of 
the  fresh  summer  air.  One  end  of  the  schoolmaster's 
little  farm  extended  to  the  river  edge,  and  there,  on 
the  brow  of  the  cliff,  under  a  group  of  gnarled  apple 
trees,  he  had  built  a  rustic  seat,  of  cedar  branches, 
for  Hagar,  when  she  was  a  wee  child,  and  had  first 
come  to  live  with  him. 

With  a  saddened  and  heavy  heart  she  now  went 
there,  to  sit  and  weep  over  her  coming  loss.  He  had 
been  to  her  a  father ;  he  had  educated  her ;  he  had 
quelled  her  youthful  follies ;  he  had  loved  her ;  and 
Hagar  threw  herself  at  full  length  upon  the  grass,  and 
with  her  head  upon  that  dear  old  seat,  wept  bitterly. 
It  was  her  first  real  sorrow.  Like  all  first  emotions, 
it  was  deep  and  passionate. 

The  shades  of  night  beginning  to  gather,  she  at 
length  rose  to  go  home.  As  she  did  so,  the  holy  calm 
of  the  darkening  twilight,  the  peaceful  serenity  of  the 
scene,  stilled  her  wild  agony,  and  seating  herself  on 
the  cedar  bench,  she  gave  her  grief  vent  in  solemn 
and  religious  song.  Out  on  the  silent  air,  she  poured 

11 


250  THE     STORY     OF    HAGAR. 

that  flood  of  passionate  and  expressive  melody — Shu- 
bert's  glorious  "  Ave  Maria" 

It  seemed  to  her  she  had  never  sung  it  so  from  her 
soul  as  she  did  then.  Slowly  and  grandly  the  ma- 
jestic creation  rolled  from  her  lips,  unconsciously  in- 
terpreted to  its  highest  meaning.  It  would  have  done 
old  Shubert's  heart  good  to  have  heard  the  beautiful 
voice  of  that  young  girl  giving  such  regal  glory  to  his 
immortal  composition. 

Silently,  while  she  sang,  an  unseen  audience  gath- 
ered below  the  cliff.  It  was  composed  of  the  occu- 
pants of  two  or  three  pleasure  skiffs,  who,  attracted 
by  the  sound,  paddled  softly  under  the  bank,  and 
paused  on  their  oars  to  listen  to  that  wondrous  music. 

In  one  of  them  were  the  Randolphs,  and  some  of 
their  city  guests. 

When  Hagar  had  ended,  and  the  last  mellow  note 
died  thrillingly  away,  a  burst  of  enthusiastic  and  rap- 
turous applause  startled  the  silence.  Although  unseen, 
she  had  not  been  unheard,  and,  like  a  frightened 
thrush,  Hagar  flew  home  to  her  nest. 

She  found  her  uncle  much  worse. 

Beside  his  couch  of  pain,  she  watched  the  whole  of 
that  summer  night. 

A  few  days  after,  there  came  a  grand  equestrian 
party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  from  Randolph  Farm, 
down  to  the  cottage.  Hagar  saw  them  before  they 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  251 

were  fairly  arrived,  and  ran  to  her  room  to  smooth 
her  hair.  They  did  not  all  alight ;  Jacqueline  only, 
with  one  of  her  brothers,  came  in  to  see  her  bewild- 
ered friend,  who  could  scarcely  answer  her  kind  and 
solicitous  questions  for  looking  at  the  fine  horses  that 
were  curveting  without, — the  nodding  plumes,  and 
the  graceful  women. 

Miss  Kandolph  had  come  to  beg  Hagar  to  spend  a 
few  days  at  the  Farm. 

"  My  dear  little  girl,"  she  cried,  as  Hagar  shook  her 
head  doubtfully,  and  opened  her  lips  to  speak ;  ''  my 
dear  girl,  I  will  not  take  '  no '  for  an  answer.  You 
are  looking  miserably;  you  need  rest  and  quiet.  I 
shall  not  keep  you  long,  and  when  you  return,  you 
will  be  all  the  stronger  to  care  for  your  uncle.  Be- 
side, my  mother  bade  me  say  she  will  herself  supply 
your  place,  either  for  day  or  night  watches.  Come, 
Hagar,  say  you  will  go; — you  look  so  pale  !" 

Charity  entered  the  sitting-room  at  this  moment,  on 
her  way  to  the  kitchen,  to  concoct  some  broth  for  her 
patient.  Miss  Randolph  appealed  to  her  very  earn- 
estly for  permission. 

"  It  will  be  so  great  a  benefit  to  her,  Mrs.  White," 
she  added,  "  for  Hagar  is  certainly  preparing  for  a 
severe  illness.  She  wants  air,  exercise  and  change  of 
scene." 

Charity  seemed  to  hesitate. 


252  THE      STORY    OF     UAGAR. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go,  my  child  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  certainly  I  would,"  Hagar  replied ; 

"  but  I  cannot  think  of  it.    What  if  uncle  should ," 

and  she  stopped  suddenly,  afraid  to  say  the  word  ex- 
pressive of  her  meaning. 

"  Do  not  fear  that,  Hagar,  dear !  He  will  be  spared 
to  us  for  many  weeks  yet.  You  are  really  sick,  your- 
self. Go,  my  child — I  would  not  lose  you  loth  /"  and 
Charity  left  the  room  to  hide  her  coming  tears. 

"  When  shall  Van  Zandt  and  I  drive  over  for  you, 
Hagar,  love?"  asked  Jacqueline,  turning  slightly 
from  her  friend  to  her  brother,  as  though  to  request 
his  willingness,  for  Jacqueline  stood  almost  as  much 
in  awe  of  her  elder  brother  as  she  did  of  her  mother. 

"  To-morrow,  if  you  choose ;  but,  Jacqueline,  I  must 
return  the  next  day  but  one.  You  have  all  these 
guests — I  shall  be  but  a  sorry  clog  on  their  amuse- 
ments, and  I  shall  be  unhappy  myself,  to  leave 
uncle  longer." 

"  So  be  it,  then,"  kissing  her  pale  cheek,  "  and  do  not 
fear  but  that  you  shall  remain  as  quiet  and  retired  as 
you  like." 

Mr.  Van  Zandt  Randolph  touched  Hagar's  small 
hand  with  an  air  of  chivalric  reverence,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment more,  Jacqueline  and  he  were  in  their  saddles, 
and  the  whole  cavalcade  winding  up  the  lane. 

They  had  come  and  gone  like  a  dream !  so  thought 


THE     STORY    OF     HAGAR.  253 

i 

Hagar,  as  she  went  to  her  room  to  look  over  her  ward- 
robe, which,  though  not  extensive,  was  choicely  and 
delicately  fashioned. 

The  next  day  brought  with  it  Mrs.  Randolph  and 
her  son.  Mrs.  Randolph  had  come  to  take  Hagar's 
place,  while  she  remained  at  the  Farm.  Nothing  but 
charitable  motives  could  ever  have  induced  that 
haughty  woman  to  allow  her  daughter  to  visit  at  the 
cottage.  She  knew  Hagar's  health  was  failing,  and  it 
was  that  alone  that  had  decided  her  to  sanction  the 
whole  proceeding. 

Charity  was  not  over  pleased  at  her  coming ;  she 
hated  her  instinctively.  Very  wisely  she  held  her  peace, 
however,  and  received  her  something  in  the  style  that 
a  sultana  would  greet  a  vassal.  At  first,  she  declined 
Mrs.  Randolph's  assistance  altogether. 

When  once,  however,  that  lady's  mind  became  fixed 
on  the  accomplishment  of  a  good  deed,  nothing  could 
turn  her  from  her  purpose.  Therefore,  Charity's  mag- 
nificent condescension  might  as  well  have  been  wasted 
on  the  winds  as  on  herself.  She  received  it  very  pa- 
tiently, gently  entreated  to  be  allowed  to  remain,  and 
not  once  gave  her  tormenter  an  opportunity  to  see 
that  she  was  annoyed.  As  a  soft  word  turneth  away 
wrath,  so,  before  the  visit  was  over,  Mrs.  Randolph 
succeeded  in  gaining  Charity's  good  will. 

Hagar  enjoyed  her  long  ride  to  the  Farm  very  much. 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

It  was  a  charming  day,  and  the  roads  free  from 
dust,  owing  to  a  shower  having  fallen  in  the  morn- 
ing. Everything  looked  so  green  and  peaceful,  that 
the  poor  over-tasked  ^irl  was  gladly,  thankfully  con- 
tent that  she  had  come. 

Mr.  Randolph  was  very  kind  to  her,  and  took  much 
pains  to  point  out  the  landscape  beauties  of  the 
country.  When  they  had  nearly  reached  the  Farm, 
Hagar  mustered  courage  to  ask  him  who  were  all  the 
grand  ladies  and  gentlemen  whom  she  had  seen  the 
day  before. 

Mr.  Randolph  laughed. 

"  Did  they  look  grand,  Miss  Hagar?"  he  asked.  "I 
hope  you  will  have  reason  to  think  so  when  you  know 
them  better.  Did  you  notice  a  pretty  lady,  in 
black?" 

"  With  a  long,  dark  feather  in  her  riding  hat  ? — 
yes." 

"  That  was  Miss  Linda  Locke ;  did  you  think  her 
handsome  ? — she  was  quite  a  belle  at  the  South  last 
winter." 

^  • 

"  Locke,  Mr.  Randolph  ?  is  she  any  connection  of 
Mr.  Locke — Jacqueline's  Mr.  Locke  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  sister.  So  Jacqueline  has  told  you  about 
Norman  Locke  ?  did  you  know  she  is  engaged  to 
him  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Hagar,  simply.     After  a  pause  she 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

added,  earnestly  but  half  fearfully,  as  though  anxious 
not  to  offend, — "  Mr.  Randolph,  do  you  really  think 
Jacqueline  loves  Mr.  Locke?" 

He  looked  surprised  for  an  instant,  and  then  said,  "I 
do  not  know — I  suppose  so,  or  she  would  not  have 
promised  to  become  his  wife ;  still  water  runs  the 
deepest,  Miss  Hagar,  and  Jacqueline's  love  for  Mr. 
Locke  may  be  on  the  same  principle.  The  truest 
love  is  that  which  endures  with  fewest  open  acknow- 
ledgments." 

"  What  is  Mr.  Locke  like  ?"  asked  Hagar. 

"  My  dear  Miss  White,"  said  Van  Zandt,  laughing 
again,  "  there  you  puzzle  me.  I  never  was  able  in  all 
my  life  to  make  a  mental  dissection  of  a  man's  fea- 
tures. I  cannot  tell  you  the  color  of  his  eyes  or  hair, 
to  save  myself.  He  is  not  at  all  handsome,  but  is  a 
right  good  fellow  notwithstanding  ;  and  here  he  comes 
with  Jacqueline.  I  am  sure  you  will  like  him  quite 
as  much  as  we  do." 

Surely  enough,  Hagar  saw  them  advancing  up  the 
road.  She  little  knew  she  owed  her  present  visit  to 
the  influence  of  this  very  Mr.  Locke !  They  were  on 
horseback,  and  Jacqueline  looked  really  pretty,  from  an 
unusual  expression  of  animation.  After  a  cordial  wel- 
come to  Hagar  she  introduced  Mr.  Locke.  Hagar  and 
he  exchanged  bows,  and  then  both  riders  turned  their 
horses'  heads  to  accompany  her  to  the  Farm.  Jac- 


256  THE     STORY     OF     HAUAE. 

queline's  future  husband  seemed  to  Hagar  to  be  rather 
stern  and  forbidding  in  aspect,  and  what  little  he  said 
during  the  remainder  of  the  ride  did  not  change  her 
opinion  for  the  better.  That  he  was  much  older  than 
her  friend,  she  sawr  at  a  glance. 

Hagar  was  spared  an  introduction  to  the  other 
guests  that  night,  as  she  seemed  too  fatigued  to  endure 
further  excitement.  Jacqueline  installed  her,  quietly,  in 
a  little  room  next  her  own,  and  spent  the  entire  even- 
ing with  her  herself.  A  happy  evening  it  was,  for  the 
two  young  girls  talked  over  all  the  incidents  of  their 
first  acquaintance,  laughing  about  Mr.  Van  Dykes' 
eccentricities  as  odd  sayings,  until  at  last  they  ended 
by  wishing  that  he  might  some  day  get  a  good  little 
wife  to  tame  and  humanize  him. 

When  they  separated  for  the  night,  Hagar's  last 
thought  was  of  the  great  difference  of  temperament 
that  existed  between  Jacqueline  and  her  elder  brother, 
and  she  could  not  help  wondering  how  the  chilling  in- 
fluence of  their  mothers  society  had  not  affected  the 
spirits  of  the  one  as  they  had  those  of  the  other. 

The  next  morning  Hagar,  as  was  her  \vont,  rose  at 
daylight,  and  sallied  out  for  a  walk.  Her  friend  was 
still  sleeping  when  she  looked  softly  in  upon  her,  so 
she  did  not  disturb  her  repose. 

It  was  a  cool,  fair  dawn.  She  had  never  felt  so  like 
a  ramble,  and  as  it  was  so  early  that  no  member  of  the 


THE     STORY     OF     HA  GAR.  257 

household  was  astir,  at  her  leisure  she  wandered 
over  the  well-ordered  grounds.  On  many  a  grassy 
knoll  she  paused  to  look  at  the  beautiful  views  of  un- 
dulating country,  that,  lying  beneath  her  feet,  were 
just  indistinct  enough,  from  the  faint  morning  mist,  to 
possess  a  delicate  and  refined  beauty.  They  were 
landscapes  for  an  artist's  pencil,  and  Hagar  had 
enough  of  an  artist's  soul  to  appreciate  them. 

Through  the  moist  wood-paths  she  wandered,  with 
that  delicious  sense  of  freedom  which  only  a  walk  at 
early  dawn  can  invoke.  Here  and  there  a  pink-eyed 
rabbit  peered  at  her  from  under  the  bushes,  and  once 
a  graceful,  but  startled  deer,  fled  across  the  walk,  and 
escaped  into  the  brushwood  with  as  much  trepidation 
as  though  the  ghost  of  Mr.  Martyn  Randolph  himself 
were  following  in  full  chase. 

Coming  to  a  bench,  near  an  opening  in  the  trees, 
she  sat  down  to  rest. 

So  intent  was  she  on  the  new  and  exquisite  pros- 
pect her  position  revealed,  that  she  did  not  hear  the 
fall  of  feet  upon  the  path  behind  her,  nor  until  a  voice 
at  her   side   ejaculated  a  "good   morning,"  was   she 
aware  that  any  one  had  joined  her. 
Looking  up,  she  beheld  Mr.  Locke. 
"  You  are  one  of  the  early  birds,  I  see,"  he  said, 
smilingly,  seating  himself  at  her  side,  "  but  are  you  not 
afraid  this  wet  grass  will  spoil  your  song  ?" 

11* 


258 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 


"  Afraid  !  not  a  bit,"  answered  Hagar,  confidently. 
"  I  am  as  used  to  the  dew  as  are  the  flowers.  It  can- 
not hurt  me !  I  am  a  country  girl,  you  know." 

"  You  do  not  look  much  like  one  ;  your  face  is  too 
pale ;  and  now,"  added  he,  "  it  is  the  color  of  a  blush 
rose." 

Hagar  was  amazed.  She  could  scarcely  recognize 
him  as  the  same  man.  So  quiet,  even  so  taciturn  last 
night, — so  cheerfully  talkative  now. 

"  And  you  are  the  nightingale  we  heard  the  other 
evening,"  he  proceeded,  "  you  are  the  songstress  that 
takes  up  abode  in  hedges  and  apple-trees,  to  keep 
folks  awake  o'  nights  !" 

"  I  sang  because  I  could  not  help  it,"  spoke  Hagar, 
and  she  thought  of  her  uncle. 

"  Yes,  the  song  was  there,  and  it  wanted  vent,"  he 
said,  looking  at  her  curiously;  "I  knew  that  when  I 
heard  it.  Are  there  many  more  like  it  where  that 
came  from  ?" 

"  Plenty,"  she  answered,  laughingly. 

"  Well,  little  nightingale,  turn  lark,  and  wake  your 
lazy  kindred, — won't  you  ?  There  is'nt  a  bird  abroad 
yet.  Will  you  sing  for  me  ?' 

"  Yes,"  cried  Hagar,  innocently,  "  if  you  promise 
not  to  look  at  me  so,  Mr.  Locke." 
'•    "  There,  I  turn  my  back.     Do  not  be  afraid,  little 
birdie,  I'll  not  look  at  you  for  the  world." 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAB.  259 

Hagar  sang. 

It  was  an  unfortunate  selection,  and  there  were 
parts  of  it  in  a  difficult  minor  key,  which  properly 
should  have  had  an  accompaniment.  She  did  not 
execute  it  well,  and  felt  mortified  at  her  failure. 

"  Did  I  not  say  dew  was  bad  for  nightingales  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Locke,  when  she  had  finished.  "  Come, 
Miss  White,  do  not  sit  here  any  longer." 

"  I  am  not  going  back  to  the  house  this  hour,"  re- 
plied Hagar,  resolutely,  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to  as- 
sist her  to  rise. 

"Why  not?  I  wonder  if  nightingales  are  ever  ob- 
stinate !" 

"  They  do  not  breakfast  at  the  Farm  until  seven, — 
it  is  not  yet  six,"  (looking  at  her  watch,)  "  and  I  am 
going  to  finish  my  walk." 

"  May  I  come  with  you  ?  My  walk  is  in  a  dread- 
fully unfinished  state,  too !" 

Hagar  hesitated,  she  scarcely  knew  why,  but  she 
felt  annoyed,  and  longea  to  be  rid  of  her  companion. 

"  I  would  rather  go  alone." 

There  was  a  slight  change  in  his  voice,  as  he  said — 

"  Very  well,  birdie,  go  alone.  I  will  not  trouble 
you.  I  shall  march  straight  home  to  tell  Jacqueline 
of  you." 

"  I'll  tell  Jacqueline  of  you"  retorted  the  inexpe- 
rienced Hagar,  half  laughing,  half  seriously. 


260  THE     STORY     OK     HAGAR. 

"  Tell  her,  little  lark,  tell  her !  Sing  her  a  song  about 
green-eyed  monsters.  She'll  understand.  Au  revoir. 
Don't  look  behind  you  in  your  walk,  birdie,  because 
you  will  not  find  me  there  !"  and  humming  an  opera 
air,  he  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  farm-house. 

When  he  was  fairly  out  of  sight,  Hagar  trusted  her- 
self with  a  hearty  laugh,  and  decided,  mentally,  that 
Mr.  Norman  Locke  was  very  odd,  and  not  half  worthy 
of  her  friend  Jacqueline. 

"  What  did  he  mean  by  green-eyed  monsters,  I'd 
like  to  know,"  she  said  aloud. — "  Oh,  I  am  afraid  he 
thinks  I  am  a  weak  characterless  girl,  with  whom  he 
can  amuse  himself  as  he  chooses.  He  shall  find  his 
mistake.  I  will  be  as  cold  and  dignified  as  Jacqueline 
herself." 

She  pursued  her  walk  as  far  as  she  desired,  and 
then  by  an  opposite  path  retraced  her  steps.  On 
reaching  her  room,  she  found  that  her  young  hostess 
was  still  asleep.  After  some  consideration,  she  deter- 
mined to  say  nothing  whatever  of  having  been  out ; 
her  reason  for  this  was  more  instinctive  than  real, — 
she  could  not  herself  have  expressed  it  in  words.  Her 
dress  being  somewhat  soiled,  she  made  a  fresh  but 
hasty  toilet,  to  which  she  was  giving  the  finishing 
touches,  when  Jacqueline  awoke,  and  called  to  her  from 
the  other  room,  "  to  know/'  as  she  said,  "  if  she  were 
asleep." 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  261 

The  girls  were  soon  dressed,  and  descended  together 
to  the  breakfast-room,  for  the  bell  had  been  rung  some 
time.  With  one  or  two  exceptions,  all  the  visitors  at 
the  Farm  were  already  there.  Hagar  went  through 
the  forms  of  introduction,  and  sat  down  in  the  seat 
Jacqueline  appointed  her,  between  Miss  Locke  and 
Van  Zandt  Randolph. 

Every  time  she  raised  her  eyes  from  her  plate,  she 
met  those  of  Norman  Locke,  who  sat  opposite,  and 
who  kept  glancing  at  her  continually,  with  a  great  deal 
of  quizzical  meaning. 

A  Miss  Morton,  who  was  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  happening  to  remark  that  she  had  seen  Mr. 
Locke  going  out  very  early  that  morning,  the  conver- 
sation turned  upon  the  habit  of  walking  before  break- 
fast. Mr.  Locke  said  he  approved  of  it  highly,  par- 
ticularly when  there  were  any  larks  about. 

"  Larks !"  exclaimed  his  sister,  "  what  can  you 
mean,  Norman  ?" 

.     UO,  nothing,   Lin,    ask    Miss  White,   perhaps   she 
knows." 

"  Miss  White,"  said  Linda,  turning  to  Hagar,  "  have 
you  any  idea  what  my  horrid  brother  is  driving  at  ?" 

"  None,  I  assure  you,"  replied  Hagar,  trying  vainly 
to  repress  her  color  and  girlish  indignation. 

"  I  hope  you  did  not  get  your  feet  wet  this  morning, 


262  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

my  dear  Miss  White/'  cai'elessly,  said  Norman,  as  he 
peered  over  at  her. 

"  Feet  wet !  good  gracious,  Hagar,  have  you  been 
out  in  this  heavy  dew  ?"  demanded  Jacqueline,  "  why 
have  you  not  mentioned  it  to  me  ?" 

"  I  did  not  go  very  far,"  faltered  Hagar,  "  and  as 
you  were  asleep  when  I  came  in,  I  could  not  speak  of 
it,  of  course.  I  suppose  I  must  have  forgotten  it  after- 
wards." 

"  Miss  White  is  probably  fond  of  solitary  rambles," 
pursued  the  relentless  Norman.  "  I  saw  her  this  morn- 
ing walking  on  Glade  Path  with  something  of  the  speed 
of  lightning." 

"  And  something  of  its  brilliancy,  too,  I  am  sure," 
said  a  chivalric  gentleman  at  Norman's  elbow. 

"  That's  right,  Fulton,"  cried  Mr.  Locke,  as  he 
reached  the  biscuits ;  "  I  thank  you  for  it  in  Miss 
White's  name." 

"  Look  here,  Norman,"  exclaimed  Van  Zandt,  rather 
gravely,  if  you  do  not  stop  talking  at  Miss  Hagar,  we'll 
have  a  battle.  Jacqueline,  why  don't  you  keep  him  in 
order  ?  Put  him  under  the  table." 

"  Pooh !"  cried  his  sister,  somewhat  broadly,  "  He 
will  not  find  that  anything  new !"  She  rose  from  her 
seat,  and  going  to  the  window,  called  to  the  hunting- 
dogs,  who  were  gamboling  on  the  piazza. 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  263 

"  What  fine  animals,"  remarked  Hagar,  anxious  to 
divert  the  conversation  into  a  new  channel. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  dogs  ?"  asked  Mr.  Randolph. 

"  Yes,  very.     Those  are  noble  creatures." 

"  And  horses?  do  you  ride  ?" 

"  A  little,— a  very  little." 

"  We  will  get  up  a  party  to-day,  then.  Riding  is 
one  of  Jacqueline's  delights.  You  must  ask  her  to  give 
you  some  lessons.  She'll  make  a  capital  teacher,  will 
she  not,  Locke  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  as  fine  a  teacher  as  I  am  sure  Miss 
White  will  make  an  apt  pupil.  Why  cannot  we  have 
the  horses  out  this  morning,  Van  Zandt  ?" 

"  Why  not,  indeed.     What  say  you,  Miss  Hagar  ?'' 

"  I  am  all  willingness." 

"  And  you,  Linda?" 

"  Ditto,"  replied  Miss  Locke,  with  more  brevity  than 
elegance.  She  was  an  odd  girl.  I  do  not  suppose 
there  ever  was  another  with  as  much  innate  refine- 
ment, who  cared  as  little  for  its  external  display. 
She  was  one  of  those  original,  strongly-willed  young 
creatures,  who  make  either  very  bad  or  very  good 
women. 

Shortly  after  breakfast  the  party  set  out.  Hagar  was 
attired  for  the  occasion  in  one  of  her  friend's  riding- 
dresses.  It  was  a  dark  green  summer-cloth,  and  fitted 
her  like  a  charm.  Though  she  could  never  look  other- 


264  THE     STORY     OF     HACAR. 

wise  than  very  plain,  there  was  about  her  an  air  of 
quiet  self-possession  not  altogether  unattractive. 

Jacqueline  asked  Hagar,  while  they  were  dressing, 
how  she  liked  Norman  Locke. 

"  I  scarcely  know  as  yet,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  am 
inclined  to  think  he  is  both  very  witty  and  very  well 
educated." 

It  was  all  she  trusted  herself  to  say. 

"Now,  Miss  Hagar,"  cried  Mr.  Locke,  whip  in  hand, 
as  the  two  ladies  came  out  on  the  front  piazza  to  wait 
for  the  horses,  "  now,  Miss  Hagar,  if  you  will  allow 
me,"  (with  a  deep  bow,)  "  I  am  going  to  be  your  escort 
and  cavalier  servente  for  the  ride." 

"  Softly  there,"  said  the  voice  of  Mr.  Randolph,  as 
he  joined  the  group.  "  /  first  invited  Miss  Hagar  to 
ride,  and  I  shall  take  upon  myself  the  honor  of  her  es- 
cort." 

"  There  will  have  to  be  a  dividend  declared,  I  am 
afraid,"  laughed  Norman,  as  he  assisted  Jacqueline  to 
mount,  "  for  I  shall  not  consent  to  any  such  proceed- 
ing." 

"  O,  Mr.  Randolph,"  said  Hagar,  softly,  "  please 
don't  let  me  ride  with  him." 

Van  Zandt  smiled,  and  said,  "  So  ho,  you  do  not 
like  him,  eh  ?" 

"  No,  he  annoys  me  so  much  !" 

"  Try  not  to  mind  him,  Miss   Hagar.     He  doesn't 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  265 

mean  the  least  harm  in  the  world, — it's  only  because 
we  spoil  him  here,  and  let  him  do  as  he  likes.  I  will 
ride  by  you,  however,  and  see  that  he  does  not  tease 
you  farther.  Where's  Linda,  and  the  other  ladies, — 
are  they  not  yet  dressed  ?  The  horses  are  wait- 
ing." 

He  put  her  in  her  saddle,  gave  her  some  quiet  direc- 
tions about  the  use  of  the  curb,  and  turned  to  aid  the 
gentlemen  to  mount  the  ladies  who  had  then  just 
arrived. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Hagar  had  ridden ;  yet, 
weak  as  she  felt,  she  thought  the  exercise  might  benefit 
her,  as  of  late  she  had  been  so  much  confined  to  the 
house. 

Seeing  that  Mr.  Locke  had  left  Jacqueline  for  a 
moment  to  assist  the  others,  she  rode  round  where 
her  horse  stood  to  ask  about  the  spirit  of  her  own. 

"  He  is  as  tame  as  a  kitten,  my  dear,"  was  Jacque- 
line's response — "  you  are  just  as  safe  as  in  your  rock- 
ing-chair. Bless  me,  Hagar,  you  are  holding  the  curb 
instead  of  the  bridle.  Wait  a  moment,  I  will  make 
Borneo  come  up  to  you.  There,  you  had  better  let 
the  curb  rest  on  the  pommel  altogether,  and  only  hold 
the  reins.  Now  let's  try  a  trot  down  the  avenue 
while  they  are  getting  ready." 

Touching  Romeo,  away  she  went  on  a  beautifully 
even  trot,  Hagar  following  a  little  behind. 


266  THE     STORY     OF     11AGAR. 

When  they  returned,  every  one  was  ready.  Mr. 
Locke  led  the  way  with  Jacqueline,  followed  by  Van 
Zandt,  Hagar  and  Linda  abreast,  the  rest  riding  en 
masse. 

A  short  distance  without  the  gates  Mr.  Locke 
paused,  to  ask  in  what  direction  it  was  most  desirable 
to  go. 

"  Why  not  to  the  Falls  ?"  inquired  Jacqueline. 

"  Or  over  that  mountain  path  we  explored  the  other 
day ;  either  is  charming,"  put  forth  Linda. 

"  Our  little  friend  there  is  not  as  yet  able  to  stand 
the  mountains,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Norman,  looking 
back  at  Hagar.  "  Linda,  can't  you  keep  that  animal 
in  a  line  with  the  rest  ?  Where  is  your  whip  ?" 

"  Good  gracious  !"  exclaimed  Linda,  tossing  back 
her  head,  and  throwing  up  the  whites  of  her  eyes  in 
burlesque  dramatic  style,  "  I've  dropped  my  golden- 
headed  whip !"  and  she  turned  her  horse's  head,  Van 
Zandt  following  her  to  look  for  the  missing  article. 

Hagar  was  thus  left  alone.  She  saw  Mr.  Locke 
speak  to  Jacqueline,  and  then  they  both  reined  in 
until  she  rode  up  to  them. 

"  There  they  come  !"  cried  Jacqueline,  looking  back 
after  a  few  moments  had  passed,  "  and  I  am  going  to 
trot  Romeo  out  to  meet  them." 

"  So,  birdie,"  said  Norman  Locke,  when  she  was 
fairly  gone,  bending  to  the  little  figure  at  his  side, — 


THE    STORY    OP     HAGAE.  267 

"  So,  birdie,  we  are  not  to  be  friends,  eh  ? — is  it 
so?" 

"  I  have  not  said  so,  sir — have  I  ?" 

"  No — but  you  have  thought  it !  I  will  make  a 
much  better  friend  than  an  enemy,  Miss  Hagar,"  look- 
ing at  her  significantly.  "  Do  you  think,  you  innocent 
songstress,  that  I  did  not  hear  what  you  said  to  Ran- 
dolph on  the  piazza  ?" 

Hagar  spoke  not,  but  blushed  deeply  and  painfully. 

"  I  want  you  to  like  me,  Miss  Hagar.  I  desire  to 
be  friends  with  you.  If  I  annoyed  you  this  morning, 
I  am  very  sorry.  You  started  me  yourself,  you  know. 
I  was  as  peaceable  as  a  lamb,  until  you  refused  to  let 
me  walk  with  you.  Shall  we,  or  shall  we  not,  be 
friends  ? — I  await  your  decision."  He  bent  down  his 
black  eyes  full  upon  her.  Trembling,  half  with  fear, 
and  half  with  a  sensation  she  knew  not  how  to 
analyze,  she  answered  faintly — 

"Friends,  Mr.  Locke — friends,  certainly." 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  touch  hands  on  it."  He  put  out 
his  own. 

"  No,"  said  Hagar,  drawing  away  and  blushing, 
"  not  now,  I  cannot." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Because  they  are  all  looking  at  us,"  and  she  felt 
regret  for  her  words  as  soon  as  they  were  spoken. 

Something  very  like  triumph  passed  over  Norman's 


268  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

face.  He  said  nothing,  however,  for  just  then  the  ab- 
sent trio  rejoined  the  party,  and  Jacqueline  took  her 
place  at  his  side. 

"  Miss  White  will  ride  with  us  for  a  little  while, 
Randolph :  Jacqueline  and  I  are  going  to  keep  her," 
cried  Mr.  Locke,  as  Van  Zandt  came  up.  Hagar 
saying  nothing  to  the  contrary,  Mr.  Randolph  fell 
back,  bringing  his  horse  abreast  with  Linda's,  who 
commenced  giving  him  an  animated  description  of  a 
wolf  hunt,  in  which  she  had  once  joined. 

"  That  is  about  the  twentieth  time  I  have  heard 
Linda  tell  that  story.  The  girl  is  proud  of  it  I  be- 
lieve. Are  you  afraid  of  wolves,  Jacqueline  ?" 

"  Never  having  seen  one,  I  cannot  say  whether  I 
am  or  not,"  she  replied,  smiling. 

"  Are  you,  Miss  Hagar  ?" 

"  Yes !"  and  she  stopped  suddenly,  as  though  she 
had  been  on  the  point  of  adding  more. 

"  Hagar  was  going  to  say  something  about  sheep's 
clothing,  I  know  she  was,"  cried  Jacqueline — "  I  saw 
her  lips  move." 

Mr.  Locke  laughed,  and  turned  towards  Van  Zandt 
to  ask  if  they  should  go  to  the  Falls. 

"  Yes,"  said  Van  Zandt,  "  if  the  ladies  are  all  wil- 
ling. Have  you  ever  visited  them,  Miss  White.?" 

Hagar  replied  that  she  had  not. 

"  Then,   that   decides   it ;  and  now,  let  us  have  a 


THE     STORY     OF     UAGAR.  269 

general  race.  Come,  ladies,  give  us  a  touch  of  your 
quality." 

And  away  the  whole  party  went,  like  so  much  chaff 
before  the  wind, — horses  and  riders  equally  excited  in 
competition,  one  with  the  other.  Hagar  was  the  first 
that  checked  her  speed ;  the  others  gradually  followed 
her  example,  laughing  and  panting  from  their  late  ex- 
ertion. 

Mr.  Locke  being  slightly  ahead,  Van  Zandt  Ran- 
dolph joined  Hagar,  and  entered  into  a  pleasant  con- 
versation that  lasted  until  they  reached  the  Falls. 
They  talked  of  books,  pictures,  and  music.  Van 
Zandt  compared  the  three,  and  analyzed  their  separate 
attractions,  in  so  masterly  a  manner,  that  Hagar  was 
delighted.  But  one  thing  he  said  dissatisfied  her,  and 
that  was,  when  he  expressed  a  greater  love  for  books 
than  music.  She  had  lived  more  in  a  world  of  music 
than  of  literature,  consequently  she  could  not  com- 
prehend his  taste,  or  understand  his  sincerity. 

Arriving  at  the  Falls,  every  one  dismounted,  because, 
to  see  them  in  their  full  perfection,  it  was  necessary 
to  descend  the  rocks,  into  the  ravine,  and  look  at  them 
from  below. 

Hagar  had  never  beheld  anything  half  so  beautiful. 

The  wild  dash  of  water  over  the  gray  old  rocks, 
flinging  jets  of  diamond  spray  hither  and  thither,  had 
an  inexpressibly  charming  effect.  The  body  of  faint 


270  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

mist  that  arose  from  it,  floated  off  among  the  sur- 
rounding forest-trees,  like  the  great  white  wing  of  a 
water-angel;  at  least  it  seemed  so  to  Hagar.  She 
could  have  stood  for  hours  and  looked  at  it  without 
weariness. 

One  of  the  ladies  found  an  Indian  arrow-head  in  a  cre- 
vice of  the  rocks,  and  gave  it  to  Hagar  as  a  memento 
of  the  spot.  It  was  wrought  out  of  stone,  roughly, 
but  symmetrically.  Hagar  kept  it  for  many  years 
among  her  treasures,  and  never  looked  at  it,  without 
feeling  something  of  the  pleasure  she  had  experienced 
at  the  Falls  themselves. 

The  return  home  was  very  pleasant. 

Mr.  Locke  made  no  attempt  to  join  or  speak  to 
Hagar  during  the  whole  ride ;  but  was  very  attentive 
and  gentle  to  Jacqueline. 

Hagar  rode  between  Linda  Locke  and  Mr.  Ran- 
dolph, and  had  she  not  been  excessively  wearied, 
she  would  have  enjoyed  greatly  their  lively  word- 
battles. 

When  they  reached  the  Farm,  however,  an  hour  or 
two  of  rest  refreshed  and  restored  her  sinking  spirits. 
She  felt  like  another  creature  when  Jacqueline  led  the 
way  to  dinner,  which  was  very  tedious  with  Mrs. 
Martyn  Randolph's  inviolable  regulations. 

In  the  evening,  they  assembled  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  some  of  the  ladies  played  and  sang. 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  271 

As  Jacqueline  had  avowed  her  intention  of  making 
Hagar  retire  early,  in  the  beginning  of  the  evening, 
Mr.  Randolph  asked  her  if  she  would  not  sing  for 
them  then. 

Readily  signifying  compliance  with  the  request,  as 
with  one  voice,  there  arose  a  demand  for  Shubert's 
"  Ave  Maria." 

It  had  become  sacred  to  Hagar  since  the  night  she 
had  so  poured  out  her  soul  in  its  supplications  for 
divine  pity.  She  felt  she  could  not  sing  it  then  and 
there,  before  that  group  of  careless  triflers,  without 
wounding  her  own  feelings. 

No  one  but  Norman  Locke  appeared  to  understand 
her  reluctance,  and  she  was  really  grateful  when 
he  declared  aloud,  that  he  would  not  allow  them  to 
ask  for  the  perpetration  of  such  unexampled  desecra- 
tion. 

He  spoke  as  though  he  dreaded  to  hear  it  himself. 

Hagar  sang  instead,  the  ancient  ballad  of  "  Auld 
Robin  Gray,"  and  a  brilliant  Italian  bravura.  Then 
she  gave  place  to  Jacqueline,  whose  gracefully  easy 
touch,  and  evenness  of  execution,  were  always  wel- 
come. Unperceived,  she  left  the  warm,  highly  illumi- 
nated drawing-room,  and  passing  out  on  the  balcony, 
sat  down  to  think  over  the  day's  adventures. 

The  cool  river  breeze  swept  over  the  spot  with 
grateful  freshness.  She  was  faint  and  feverish  from 


272  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

too  much  excitement,  and  leaning  her  head  against 
the  wall,  dejectedly  longed  to  be  at  home  again. 

She  could  not  chase  away  the  sense  of  ingratitude 
that  smote  her  for  passing  so  happy  a  day,  while  her 
uncle  was  on  his  sick  bed,  lonely  and  sad. 

The  flood  of  blended  light  and  music  that  came 
through  the  open  casements,  jarred  on  her  feelings  ;  she 
felt  as  though  she  could  have  flown  to  reach  the  be- 
loved sufferer. 

Jacqueline  soon  came  in  search  of  her. 

Even  by  that  uncertain  light,  she  saw  her  friend 
was  not  well,  and  kindly  insisted  on  accompanying  her 
to  her  room. 

Norman  Locke  was  standing  at  the  door  as  they 
advanced  towards  it  together,  after  Hagar  had  bid  a 
general  good-night.  He  did  not  speak,  but  with  a 
silent  and  low  inclination  of  the  head,  stepped  aside 
to  let  the  two  girls  pass. 

Hagar's  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground,  yet  she 
knew  he  was  looking  at  her  intently ;  the  very  throb- 
bing of  her  heart  told  it  her. 

"  You  cannot  guess  what  good  things  every  one  has 
been  saying  about  you,"  cried  Jacqueline,  when  they 
were  fairly  in  their  own  rooms. 

"  I  hope  I  merited  them,"  murmured  Hagar,  faintly, 
as  she  sank  wearily  in  an  arm-chair. 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  273 

"  Of  course  you  did,"  answered  her  friend,  warmly. 
"  There  is  Van  Zandt  declares  you  are  perfectly 
charming ;  and  if  that  is  not  true,  I  would  like  to 
know  what  is !  And  little  Sara  Rainsford  says  it  is 
good  as  going  to  church  to  look  at  you !" 

Hagar  heard  her  not. 

Her  head  drooped — a  film  came  over  her  eyes,  and 
she  half  fainted  from  the  pain  of  a  strange  sensation 
in  her  breast.  The  over-exertion  of  the  day  had  been 
too  much  for  her  weak  state. 

Her  insensibility  lasted  but  a  moment,  however,  and 
the  alarmed  Jacqueline  scarcely  perceived  her  friend's 
condition  before  she  had  partially  revived.  She  aided 
her,  with  alarmed  haste,  to  undress,  and  bathed  her 
head  in  ice-water,  until  Hagar  declared  herself  suffi- 
ciently well  for  her  young  hostess  to  return  to  the 
drawing-room  and  her  guests. 

Jacqueline  then  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  bade  her 
good-night,  saying,  affectionately,  what  a  favorite  she 
was  with  every  one  in  the  house,  and  how  Norman 
Locke  had  told  her  that  he  loved  her  already. 

As  the  door  closed  upon  her,  Hagar  buried  her  face 
in  the  pillows,  and  cried,  passionately, 

"  I  would  he  hated  me  !" 


12 


274  THE     STORY    OF    H  A  G  A  R  . 

THE  next  day,  quite  early,  Hagar  returned  to  her 
home.  Her  anxiety  to  see  her  uncle  was  so  great 
that  nothing  could  induce  her  to  remain  longer  at 
Randolph  Farm. 

Jacqueline  had  been  rather  injudicious  in  allowing 
her  friend  so  little  actual  repose,  for  she  went  back  to 
the  cottage  even  in  more  miserable  health  than  when 
she  left  it. 

The  days  flew  on.  James  Kenworthy  grew  rapid- 
ly worse.  To  the  very  last,  he  was  buoyed  up  with 
deceitful  hopes  of  returning  strength.  He  never 
realized  that  he  was  going  to  die — never  for  one  mo- 
ment did  he  believe  that  the  Angel  of  Death  hovered 
around  his  couch.  Hopefulness  was  one  of  the  char- 
acteristics of  his  lingering  disease. 


LONG  as  they  had  expected  it,  neither  mother  nor 
daughter  could  accustom  themselves  to  his  loss.  He 
had  been  to  them  so  tender  and  loving  a  friend  ;  he  was 
so  pure,  so  saint-like  in  all  his  ways,  so  beloved  by  every 
one  who  knew  him,  that  there  was,  indeed,  darkness 
when  his  light  went  out  forever.  Charity's  grief  was 
more  wild,  more  passionate  than  Hagar's  ;  it  had  more 
outward  show,  more  uncontrolled  abandonment ;  but 
the  wound  was  no  deeper,  its  agony  no  bitterer  to 
endure. 


THE     STORY     Or     HAGAR.  275 

It  is  strange  how  the  slightest  thing  can  recall  the 
past.  The  vacant  chair,  the  silver-headed  cane  stand- 
ing in  a  corner,  or  the  sight  of  clothing,  put  off  for 
raiment  of  immortality,  each  and  all  combined  to 
keep  the  memory  of  their  loss  constantly  before 
them. 

In  a  peaceful  corner  of  the  village  church-yard  was 
laid  all  that  was  mortal  of  James  Kenworthy.  The 
shadows  of  swaying  branches  flit  over  the  lonely 
mound,  intermingled  here  and  there  with  a  few  golden 
gleams  of  sunlight — a  not  inappropriate  type  of  his 
life,  for  its  shade  was  deep — its  bright  spots  far  be- 
tween. A  white  stone,  with  name  and  date,  is  all 
that  marks  the  spot.  Love  needs  nothing  more. 


JACQUELINE  rode  down  to  the  cottage  quite  often,  to 
visit  and  console  her  afflicted  friend.  Sometimes  she 
was  accompanied  by  Van  Zandt,  and  sometimes  by 
Mr.  Locke.  She  pressed  Hagar  very  warmly  to 
spend  a  few  weeks  at  the  Farm,  hoping  that  the 
change  might  enliven  her  spirits  and  health ;  but 
Hagar  would  not  leave  her  mother  alone  with  her 
sorrow. 

About  ten  days  after  the  event  that  had  brought 
desolation  into  that  poor,  plain  house,  Charity,  for  the 


276  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

first  time,  took  her  daughter  into  her  counsel.  It  was 
to  debate  about  their  future. 

Hagar  was  much  moved  at  this  proof  of  confidence, 
this  first  appeal  to  her  judgment,  and,  principal^  be- 
cause it  reminded  her  of  the  now  powerless  will  to 
which  her  mother  had  hitherto  turned  for  assist- 
ance. 

Charity  had  an  important  communication  to  make 
to  her  daughter.  She  had  known  the  subject  of  this 
communication  for  some  time  before  her  brother's 
death,  but  an  unwillingness  to  add  to  Hagar's  grief 
had  caused  her  to  withhold  it  till  then. 

It  was  that  they  were  penniless.  The  hardly  earn- 
ed money  she  had  destined  for  her  child  was  lost  to 
her  forever ! 

Unwisely  attempting  speculation,  in  the  hope  of 
increasing  the  original  fund,  she  had  ruined  herself 
and  her  child  in  the  experiment. 

Hagar  was  less  touched  than  she  expected  by  the 
tidings.  Her  mother  looked  for  tears,  exclamations, 
and  bursts  of  sorrow;  but  the  calm  breast  of  the 
heroic  girl  contained  her  despair  in  silence.  Her  feel- 
ings were  always  deep,  yet  she  seldom  gave  outward 
evidence  that  they  were  so. 

She  only  cast  her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck, 
saying — "  And  you  have  borne  this  dreadful  secret  so 
long  alone,  mother,  to  save  me  /" 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  277 

A  volume  could  not  have  expressed  so  much  to 
Charity  as  those  few  words. 

"  And  now,  my  own  child,  that  you  know  all,  what 
must  we,  what  can  we  do !  We  are  not  quite  beg- 
gars. This  little  house,  and  all  that  is  in  it,  is  yours 
by  your  uncle's  will.  Oh,  Hagar  !  I  had  so  longed  to 
place  you  above  want, — to  feel  that  if  I  should  die 
suddenly,  you  were  provided  for  as  long  as  you 
lived  !" 

And  Charity  wept — Charity,  the  strong,  iron-willed 
woman,  while  that  frail,  little  figure,  stood  tearless  at 
her  side,  striving  to  comfort  her ! 

"  Dear  mother,  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  grieve  over 
this.  As  you  say,  we  are  not  quite  roofless, — we  can 
work, — sew, — labor  with  our  hands,  until  we  have  re- 
placed our  lost  money  !" 

Charity  looked  at  her,  pityingly.  "  Poor  child — you 
do  not  know  what  labor  is." 

"But  I  can  learn.  I  am  young  and  hopeful.  I  will 
teach, — sing, — do  anything,  and  everything  that  can 
bring  in  gold." 

And  Charity  answered,  but  by  repeating  ab- 
sently, "  Poor  child  —  you  do  not  know  what  la- 
bor is  !" 

She  was  thinking  of  the  solemn  vow  by  which  she 
had  bound  herself  to  her  dead  brother,  never  to  return 
to  the  stage.  A  momentary  regret,  a  wild  desire  seiz- 


278  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

ed  her ;  but  she  thought  of  the  peaceful  childhood  and 
virtuous  girlhood  that  vow  had  purchased,  and  the 
temptation  to  break  it  vanished  with  wings  of  light- 
ning. 

"  Hagar,  my  dear  child,"  (she  always  called  her 
"  child,"  though  she  had  entered  woman's  sunniest 
period,)  "  you  are  pale  and  haggard.  Do  not  let  this 
misfortune  afflict  you  too  much.  Go  out  and  breathe 
the  fresh  air, — take  a  walk, — anything  to  bring  the 
red  back  to  your  cheeks.  If  we  must  work,  we  will 
work  together ; — we  shall  be  happy  yet,  in  spite  of 
Fate  and  Fortune!" 

She  tried  to  smile  as  Hagar  obeyed  and  left  her,  but 
it  was  a  wan,  ghastly  smile,  pale  and  white  as  moon- 
light shining  on  snow. 

Throwing  a  scarf  over  her  head,  Hagar  left  the 
house,  and  walked  she  scarcely  knew  whither. 

The  blow  was  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  that  it  was 
difficult  to  learn  resignation.  She  tried  to  think  of 
some  plan,  some  way,  by  which  their  fallen  fortunes 
could  be  retrieved. 

She  remembered  her  mother  had  once  been  an 
actress.  Was  it  impossible  that  she  might  become 
one  also  ?  She  knew  she  had  genius— she  felt  it 
Swaying  in  a  tumultuous  tide  within  her ; — could  she 
not  turn  it  and  her  voice, — that  voice  so  often  praised 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  279 

as  rare  and  melodious,  to  some  account  in  their  now 
reduced  circumstances  ? 

The  idea  gave  her  comfort.  The  very  means,  now 
lost,  were  accumulated  by  her  mother  on  the  stage. 

With  a  thankful  heart  she  saw  there  was  at  least 
one  way  to  independence. 

In  a  reverie,  Hagar  wandered  on  until  she  reached 
the  little  ivy-covered  church.  From  the  force  of 
habit,  (for  much  of  her  time  was  spent  in  that  green 
church-yard,)  she  unfastened  t  the  gate,  and  passed 
within  the  walls.  She  did  not  know  she  was  there 
until  she  found  herself  kneeling  on  the  damp  grass, 
beside  the  simple  stone  that  bore  her  uncle's  name. 

For  the  first  time  since  her  mother's  avowal  of  their 
poverty,  she  wept.  They  were  burning  tears,  yet  full 
of  exquisite  relief.  Leaning  her  young  head  against 
the  marble,  she  gave  free  vent  to  her  feelings,  and 
sobbed  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

She  was  startled  by  hearing  a  sound  as  of  some  one 
coming  towards  her  from  among  the  tall  old  monu- 
ments. She  knew  who  it  was  before  she  turned  to 
look.  When  she  did  so,  she  beheld  the  grave  counte- 
nance of  Norman  Locke. 

"  I  came  to  find  you,"  he  said  kindly,  touching  her 
black  dress  as  he  spoke,  with  a  sort  of  tender  pity. 
"  I  have  been  to  the  cottage.  The  servant  told  me 
you  had  walked  this  way." 


280  THE     STORY     OF     IIAGAR. 

He  sat  down  on  a  tomb,  and  seemed  to  be  looking 
around  him.  Hagar  ceased  weeping,  and  after  awhile 
managed  to  ask  in  a  low  voice,  how  he  had  left  Jacque- 
line. 

"  Well,  and  quite  anxious  to  see  you." 

"  And  Miss  Linda,  and  all  the  rest  ?" 

"  Linda  is  at  home.  There  are  no  visitors  at  the 
Farm  but  me.  Why  don't  you  come  to  us,  Hagar  ? 
Do  you  not  suppose  we  should  be  glad  to  care  for 
you  ?" 

His  deep  voice  vibrated  to  the  core  of  her  heart, 
but  she  did  not  answer.  For  a  moment  there  was  si- 
lence. 

He  came  beside  her. 

"  Hagar,"  he  said  passionately,  "  notwithstanding 
the  sacredness  of  this  place,  I  must  speak !  It  may  be 
long  before  I  have  the  opportunity  again.  I  love  you, 
Hagar — I  love  you  with  an  affection  as  strong  as  life. 
When  I  heard  your  voice  that  night  upon  the  river,  I 
knew  even  then  that  my  soul  at  last  had  found  its 
mate.  Hagar !" 

She  was  weeping  again. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  said. 

Suddenly  she  turned  upon  him.  Her  mild  eyes 
flashed, — her  puny  form  was  erect  with  outraged  dig- 
nity. 

"  How  DARE  you  speak  so  to  me  ?  how  DARE  you 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  281 

speak  to  me  of  love, — you,  pledged  in  the  sight  of  God 
as  the  husband  of  Jacqueline  ?" 

''Jacqueline  !"  oh,  with  what  ineffable  bitterness  he 
tossed  the  word  from  him.  "  What  is  Jacqueline  to 
me  !  Has  not  she  promised  herself  as  my  wife,  solely 
because  it  is  her  policy  ?  Has  not  her  proud  mother 
worked,  schemed,  and  mano3uvred  to  bring  us  together, 
when  both  mother  and  daughter  merely  endured  me 
for  money's  sake  ?  Answer  me  that !  Love  !  Jacque- 
line Randolph  does  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  ! 
I  tell  you,  Hagar,  she  knows  no  more  of  a  love  like 
that  I  bear  to  you, — unbounded  and  enduring  as  hea- 
ven,— than  you  do,  poor  lamb,  of  hatred." 

Hagar  made  a  movement  to  leave  him.  Her  sense 
of  her  own  passion  for  this  man  grew  stronger  every 
moment.  She  panted  to  go  from  him  before  she  was 
tempted  even  to  wrong  her  friend  in  thought. 

He  saw  her  design,  and  placed  himself  before  her. 

"Hagar,  you  must  listen  to  me.  I  implore  you  to 
stay.  I  promise  solemnly  not  to  utter  one  word  that 
your  delicacy  can  resent." 

Passively  she  sat  down  on  the  slab  from  which  he 
had  just  risen ;  she  could  not  resist  the  magnetism  of 
his  wildly  earnest  eyes. 

"  Hagar,  like  you  I  have  a  widowed  mother,  and 
like  yours,  she  is  a  noble  and  beautiful  woman.  I  am 
her  only  son.  On  me  devolves  the  hopes  of  her  life- 


282  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

time  and  her  great  wealth.  In  my  early  life,  it  was 
her  fondest  prayer  that  I  should  become  a  good  and 
great  man.  She  saw  I  had  genius, — she  saw,  too,  I 
had  violent  passions,  and  she  trusted  to  the  one  to  cor- 
rect the  others. 

"It  was  not  so  fated.  Temptations  assailed  me,  and 
I  fell.  With  staring  eyes  I  rushed  into  sin,  and  per- 
verted my  talents  to  the  basest  purposes.  As  I  grew 
older,  I  wearied  of  my  shameful  life.  In  disgust  I 
turned  my  back  on  my  late  associates,  my  former 
haunts,  and  sought  the  love  of  woman  as  a  haven  of 
rest. 

"  In  Jacqueline,  I  thought  I  had  found  my  ideal  of 
the  sex.  Like  you,  she  is  tender  and  sweet,  and  gen- 
tleness was  always  necessary  to  tame  a  lion  like  my- 
self. Her  mind  is  well  cultivated,  she  is  a  lady  in  the 
truest  sense  of  the  word,  and  for  awhile  I  was  at  peace 
in  her  society. 

"  Like  a  ship  that  has  tossed  upon  a  wild  and  stormy, 
ocean,  and  at  last  comes  smoothly  into  safe  harbor, 
so  was  it  with  me.     Temptation  to  do  evil  had  now 
no  power  over  me  ;  I  became  a  better  man. 

"I  loved  Jacqueline  as  I  had  never  before  loved 
woman,  and  my  wickedness  was  subdued  by  that  love. 
I  had  thought  I  possessed  her  own  in  return ;  I  had 
thought  I  controlled  her  heart.  By  degrees,  my  eyes 
were  opened.  She  never  has,  and  does  not  love  me  ! 


THE    STORY     OP     HAGAR.  283 

Her  mother  is  her  master.  She  said  to  her,  '  Jacque- 
line, it  is  my  will  that  you  marry  that  man,'  and  her 
daughter  dared  not  but  obey.  I  am  rich,  and  Mrs. 
Randolph's  ambition  for  Jacqueline  is  wealth. 

"Hagar,  although  I  discovered  that  I  was  nothing  to 
Jacqueline,  I  would  have  married  her, — I  would  have 
fulfilled  my  word  and  gone  with  her  to  the  altar,  know- 
ing she  did  not  love  me,  and  with  my  own  longing  for 
sympathy  thrust  back  upon  me  ! 

"  But  you  came  between  us !  From  the  instant  I 
heard  your  voice,  and  in  it  read  your  soul,  I  felt  that 
you  were  created  for  me  alone !  You  are  my  destiny, — 
my  wife ! 

"  Think  for  one  moment,  Hagar,  of  what  power  you 
hold.  You  may  make  me  a  noble  and  honored  man, 
worthy  the  esteem  of  my  fellow  creatures ;  you  may 
be  the  good  influence  of  my  life,  or,  if  you  cast  me 
from  you,  you  destroy  me  forever !  I  feel  that  if  you 
reject  my  love,  I  shall  thenceforth  wander  through  the 
world  an  aimless  and  sinful  creature, — wrecked  for 
time  and  eternity.  My  fate  is  in  your  hands, — be 
merciful!" 

She  tried  to  speak  to  him,  but  excitement  had  taken 
away  the  power  of  her  will. 

"  Hagar,"  Norman  Locke  continued,  gently  taking 
her  hands  within  his  own — "  I  know  you  love  me.  I 
knew  it  almost  as  soon  as  I  knew  yourself.  I  read  it 


284  T  II  E     STORY     OF     II  A  G  A  R  . 

in  your  face,  in  your  actions,  in  your  very  avoidance 
of  me.  Jacqueline  is  the  bar,  the  only  obstacle  that 
lies  between  us — you  feel  it  a  dishonor  to  supplant 
your  friend.  Oh,  Hagar  !  speak  but  the  word — believe 
me,  freedom  will  be  as  welcome  to  her  as  to  myself. 
Without  your  promise  to  become  my  wife,  I  never 
will  break  the  bond  that  binds  us  together — that,  and 
that  only,  can  give  me  a  right  to  do  so.  Speak, 
Hagar,  speak — tell  me  you  will  some  day  be  my 
wife !" 

Hagar  did  speak  at  last. 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  and  ejaculated,  firmly, 

"  Never !" 

Then  convulsively  clasping  her  hands,  she  added, 
solemnly — 

"  By  every  token  through  which  one  woman  reads 
the  heart  of  another,  Jacqueline  loves  you  !  If  she  did 
not  at  first,  with  all  her  soul,  she  does  now  I  Norman 
Locke,  /  love  you  too,  but  rather  than  degrade 
my  womanhood  by  crushing  my  friend's  heart,  I 

will "  a  half  sob  choked  her  utterance,  "  break 

my  own !" 

She  turned,  and  gliding  among  the  headstones,  was 
gone.  Awed  and  astonished,  he  made  no  effort  to  fol- 
low her.  Her  dignity, — the  majesty  of  her  determina- 
tion,— and  the  sublime  beauty  of  her  sacrifice,  impres- 
sed him  with  wonder. 


THE     STORY     OF    HAGAR.  285 

Much  as  he  loved  her,  he  had  not  dreamed  that 
Hagar  White  was  capable  of  such  grand  virtue,  such 
heroic  nobility. 


IT  is  not  necessary  to  recount  by  what  arguments 
and  entreaties  Hagar  combated  her  mother's  resolu- 
tion, nor  how,  at  last,  she  gained  her  consent  for  pre- 
paration for  the  perilous  experiment  of  the  life  of  an 
actress.  She  had  confidence  in  her  own  abilities, — she 
felt  the  incentive  of  the  holiest  of  motives,  and  to  her 
inexperienced  eye  success  was  certain. 

In  vain  her  mother  pointed  out  the  difficulties,  the 
trials  that  had  beset  her  own  path,  and  told  her  of  the 
long  struggling  warfare  before  they  were  conquered. 

"  You  did  conquer  !"  was  the  ever  ready  and  hope- 
ful answer. 

Hagar  had  no  desire  to  become  a  mere  actress. 
Her  ambition,  her  genius  soared  high  above  that. 
The  possession  of  so  glorious  a  voice  alone,  gave  her 
a  burning  desire  to  study  for,  and  appear  on  the 
Italian  lyrical  stage.  Since  the  ordeal  in  the  church- 
yard, through  which  she  had  passed  with  a  triumph 
bought  only  at  the  price  of  untold  agonies,  she  had 
been  feverishly  anxious  to  begin  her  studies. 


286  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

Mr.  Van  Dyke  was,  as  a  friend,  admitted  by  both 
mother  and  daughter  into  the  secret. 

The  good  little  man  became  half  frantic  with  grief 
at  the  prospect  of  the  future  misery  to  Hagar  which 
the  mere  idea  involved.  He  told  her  of  the  years  of 
severe  study  thrpugh  which  she  must  pass  before  a 
de'but  was  possible,  and  of  the  heart-burnings, — the 
daily  insults, — the  rivalries  there  were  to  endure,  even 
supposing  that  debut  successful. 

Hagar  received  all  he  had  to  s'ay  as  immovably  as  a 
rock. 

She  had  decided — she  had  gained  her  mother's  con- 
sent, and  thenceforth  nothing  could  shake  her  purpose. 

Mr.  Van  Dyke,  of  all  other  men,  was  the  one  best 
calculated  to  advise  under  such  circumstances.  In 
Germany  he  had  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life 
among  struggling  aspirants  for  the  lyrical  stage.  He 
knew  the  labor  and  the  probable  reward. 

When  he  found  that  Hagar's  resolution  was  un- 
changeable, he  advised  her  to  go  with  her  mother  to 
Naples,  and  immediately  place  herself  in  one  of  the 
theatrical-musical  schools  there  located,  her  progress 
in  which  could  alone-decide  her  future. 

Then  came  the  terrible,  the  momentous  question — 
where  were  to  be  found  the  means  to  defray  the  ex- 
penses of  the  long  journey,  and  this  necessary  and  in- 
valuable training? 


THE     STORY     OP     HAGAR.  287 

"  We  can  sell  the  house  and  furniture,"  said  Charity, 
"  but  even  that  will  go  but  little  way.  Oh,  Hagar,  give 
it  up !  Do  not  go  from  Briartown !  Every  time  I  think 
of  it,  I  cannot  help  doubting  your  strength  of  body 
and  mind,  for  the  attainment  of  that  to  which  you  look 
forward  as  the  crown  of  your  efforts." 

"  Mother,"  Hagar  replied  proudly,  "  your  scepticism 
gives  me  but  another  reason  to  succeed." 

From  that  day,  Charity  ceased  to  dissuade. 

She  remembered  her  own  aspirations  at  Hagar's  age, 
and  had  pity  upon  her,  blessing  God  that  in  her  new 
life,  her  child  was  not  without  protection.  She  was 
not  to  rest  solely  on  her  own  strength  for  the  resistance 
of  temptations  incident  to  her  profession. 

The  house,  once  the  home  of  Hagar's  grand-parents, 
was  sold.  It  was  simple  and  poor ;  the  purchase- 
money  was  indeed  but  as  a  drop  in  the  well. 

Something  more  must  be  done. 

Mr.  Van  Dyke  counselled  giving  a  concert  in  Briar- 
town,  and  promised,  unsolicited,  to  secure  for  the  oc- 
casion the  voluntary  assistance  of  the  first  artists  in  the 
neighboring  city. 

But  Hagar  shrank  from  the  idea  of  singing  before 
the  hard,  cold  eyes,  the  well-known  faces  of  that  un- 
generous village. 

She  was  well  aware  that  curiosity  alone  would  fill 
her  concert-room ;  but  with  the  natural  independence 


288  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

of  her  temperament,  even  in  her  present  poverty,  she 
scorned  the  money  of  those  who  had  never  given  her 
kindness. 

The  city  of  Charleston  was  distant  not  many  hun- 
dreds of  miles  from  Briartown.  It  was  decided  that 
her  touchingly  beautiful  organ  should  for  the  first  time 
there  be  heard  in  public. 

The  reputation  of  the  place  is  that  of  liberality,  and 
especially  in  musical  matters.  Charity  felt  assured  of 
her  child's  triumph  in  any  concert-room,  and  a  brilliant 
success  was  scarcely  to  be  doubted,  among  the  open- 
hearted,  enthusiastic  southerners  ;  at  all  events,  their 
whole  little  property  was  risked  in  the  experiment. 

Mr.  Van  Dyke  voluntarily  took  the  management  of 
the  affair.  None  could  be  more  anxious  for  the  result 
than  he. 

Knowing  the  positive  necessity  for  properly  varied 
attractions,  he  would  cot  listen  to  Hagar's  request 
that,  in  order  to  make  the  expenses  as  light  as  possible, 
the  principal  burden  of  the  entertainment  might  come 
upon  herself. 

He  engaged  the  most  desirable  hall  for  the  occasion, 
got  together,  and  caused  rehearsals  of  a  full  orchestra, 
and  secured  the  services  of  a  tenore  and  basso,  both  of 
whom  were  public  artists  of  the  first  reputation  and 
merit. 

In  three  weeks  from  her  uncle's  death,  the  day  dawn- 


THE     STORY     OF     IIAGAR.  289 

ed  on  which  Hagar  was  to  leave  for  Charleston,  and 
begin  her  pilgrimage  of  patient  labor. 

From  the  first  moment  that  Mrs.  Randolph  had 
been  informed  of  the  destination  of  Hagar's  genius, — 
of  her  intended  theatrical  life, — with  lofty  indignation 
she  forbade  Jacqueline  all  further  intercourse  with  her. 
It  had  been  bad  enough  to  tolerate  her  mother,  and 
that,  she  told  Jacqueline,  she  had  only  done  from  pity 
to  Hagar  herself. 

The  circumstances  of  the  case  were  now  changed. 
Their  friendship  must  cease, — who  ever  heard  of  a 
sternly  virtuous  Randolph  knowingly  associating  with 
a  woman  of  public  reputation, — an  a'ctress  ? 

So  Hagar  lost  her  only  friend.  She  left  Briartown 
beggared  in  every  thing  but  hope. 

Jacqueline  never  thought  of  disobeying  her  mother. 
She  looked  upon  her  will  as  law,  and  as  such  it  in- 
fluenced all  her  actions.  She  had  never  entered  a 
theatre.  Her  ideas  of  its  evils  were  much  exaggerated, 
— a  sense  of  its  counteracting  beauties  did  not  exist  in 
her  mind  at  all.  Grieving,  therefore,  over  the  de- 
pravity of  Hagar's  heart  that  had  led  her  to  choose  so 
unnatural  a  lot,  she  tried  to  deaden  the  thought  of  her 
into  oblivion. 

Poor  Hagar !  but  one  ever  knew  the  awful  sacrifice 
she  had  made  for  that  unfaithful  friend. 


290  THE     STORY     OF     IIAGAR. 

The  evening  of  the  concert  arrived.  To  Hagar  it 
was  freighted  with  agony — her  heart  sank,  and  her 
courage  left  her,  for  on  that  night's  events  depended 
her  own  and  her  mother's  future.  If  she  succeeded, 
all  was  clear  before  her,  at  least  it  seemed  so  then; 
if  she  failed,  despair,  want,  abject  poverty  awaited 
them.  She  knew  if  she  could  only  command  her  voice, 
success  was  certain,  but  in  her  dismay  she  was  attack- 
ed with  the  presentiment  of  its  leaving  her  at  the  most 
critical  and  important  moment.  She  had  heard  of 
such  things,  had  read  of  their  actual  event  in  the  biog- 
raphies of  celebrated  prime  donne.  She  could  not 
chase  the  fear  away.  It  had  haunted  her  for  weeks  ; 
and,  as  on  that  eventful  night  she  sat,  trembling  in  the 
dressing-room,  listening  with  a  sick  heart  to  the  per- 
formance of  the  overture,  it  rushed  upon  her  with  re- 
newed force. 

The  decisive  moment  arrived,  and  Signor ,  the 

well-attired 'and  elegant  tenore  of  the  evening,  came  to 
lead  her  out  for  the  opening  duetto  with  himself. 

Every  one  knows  what  interest  a  "  first  appearance" 
creates,  and  what  anxious  desire  is  felt  for  the  earliest 
glimpse  of  the  coming  debutante. 

There  was  some  applause,  a  little  excitement,  and  a 
great  deal  of  curious  attention  as  Hagar  took  her  place 
by  the  footlights.  There  was  nothing  in  her  personal 
appearance  calculated  to  attract  admiration,  or  cause 


THE     STORY     OP     HAGAR.  291 

the  slightest  sensation  of  enthusiasm.  She  had  attired 
herself  very  simply  in  a  white  lace  dress,  made  low  in 
the  neck.  Her  sleeves  were  looped  up  with  a  few  na- 
tural green  leaves,  a  wreath  of  the  same  encircling 
her  head,  and  a  graceful  spray  quivering  on  her  breast. 
These  leaves  were  her  only,  adornments.  Charity  had 
taken  pride  in  arranging  them  with  classical  simplicity. 
The  duetto  was  the  celebrated  one,  "  Da  qual  di  che 
t'incontrai"  from  Donizetti's  opera  of  "  Linda  di  Clia- 
mouni."  It  opens  with  a  brief  recitative  movement, 
commencing  at  the  line, — 

"  Non  so  quella  canzon  m'intenerisce  mi  rattrista." 

The  orchestra  prelude  finished,  there  reigned  a  dead 
silence  of  expectation  throughout  the  vast  and  well- 
filled  music-hall. 

But  in  vain  Hagar  attempted  to  sing  ;  she  essayed 
again  and  again, — a  husky  and  almost  inaudible  sound 
was  all  that  passed  her  lips.  She  felt  as  though  she 
were  sick,  dying, — she  could  hear  the  wild  beating  of 
her  own  heart. 

The  leader  of  the  orchestra,  practised  in  cases  of  the 
kind,  gave  a  private  signal,  and  the  symphony  was 
again  executed,  that  the  frightened  girl  might  collect 
herself.  The  respite  was  a  god-send.  By  the  time 
those  brief  chords  were  again  sounded,  she  had  become 
calmer,  and  in  a  tremulous,  unequal  voice,  executed 


292  THE     STORY     OF     IIAGAR. 

her  part  of  the  recitative.  Carlo's  solo  then  gave  her 
an  opportunity  to  regain  farther  composure,  and  at  the 
conclusion  of  her  own,  which  follows  immediately 
afterwards,  so  admirably,  so  effectively  was  it  rendered, 
that  a  burst  of  liberal  and  unanimous  applause  inter- 
rupted the  duetto. 

Hagar  naturally  sang  with  great  feeling  and  dra- 
matic abandon ;  her  lights  and  shades  were  always 
exquisitely  managed,  but  during  the  remainder  of  the 
duet,  she  surpassed  even  herself.  It  was  not  her  sing- 
ing, however,  (for  that  was  still  in  the  rough,)  as  much 
as  her  pathetic  and  mellow  voice,  that  excited  the 
sympathies  of  the  audience,  and  the  duet  was  well 
calculated  to  exhibit  its  finest  qualities. 

Throughout  the  piece,  and  especially  at  the  pretty 
melody,  "  O  consolarmi  affreltisi?  tokens  of  generous 
appreciation  brought  Hagar  from  despair  to  rapture. 
At  its  termination,  shouts  of  excited  approval  follow- 
ed her  from  the  stage  ;  an  encore  was  demanded,  and  the 
magnificent  junction  of  those  two  rare  voices  again  de- 
lighted the  surprised  and  gratified  audience.  They 
came  from  curiosity,  or  to  while  away  a  few  idle 
hours,  and  that  poor  agitated  village  girl  had  at  once 
won  them  from  apathy  to  enthusiasm. 

Charity  stood  leaning  her  regal  person  against  a 
side-door,  behind  the  scenes,  a  position  from  which 
she  saw  and  heard  all  that  passed.  As  soon  as  Hagar 


THE     STORY     OF     UAGAR.  293 

left  the  stage,  she  flew  to  that  exultant  mother's  arms* 
and  wept  for  joy.  She  felt  that  her  ambitious  dream 
was  not  to  remain  all  a  dream — she  was  conscious 
that  she  had  that  night  stepped  on  the  borders  of  its 
reality. 

If  she  had  been  an  angel,  she  could  not  for  the  mo- 
ment have  felt  happier. 

The  programme  for  the  evening  was  excellent.  Mr. 
Van  Dyke  had  taken  good  care  of  that.  The  brilliant 
assemblage  had  not  the  slightest  cause  for  ill  humor  or 
indifference. 

The  other  artists  were  cordially  received,  not  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  debutante,  but  because  they  were 
deservedly  public  favorites. 

Hagar's  next  essay  was  a  quaint  Irish  ballad,  one  of 
Moore's.  Its  rendition  was  appropriate,  unexaggerat- 
ed,  and  pleased  by  its  graceful  flow  of  melody. 

Her  great  effort — her  crowning  glory,  for  it  proved 
such,  was  reserved  for  the  last.  It  was,  "  Qui  la  Voce 
sua  soave ;"  she  sang  it  as  she  never  sang  it  again.  She 
never  afterwards  felt  the  same  inspiration.  Like  a 
flood  of  sunlight,  she  made  it  to  float  around  the  hall. 
A  holy  presence  seemed  to  pervade  the  building — it 
was  like  reality  ;  one  appeared  to  see  something  ! 

"  Good  heavens  !"  a  veteran  musician  was  heard  to 
exclaim  as  he  left  the  house,  after  the  concert,  "  why 
on  earth  is  that  girl  advertised  as  going  to  Italy  to  be 


94  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

educated  ?     All  that  science  can  do,  will  but  spoil  her 
originality  and  freshness !" 

THE  entertainment  over,  exhausted  by  the  efforts  of 
the  evening,  Hagar  begged  to  be  taken  at  once  to  her 
hotel.  She  longed  for  darkness  and  silence,  that  she 
might  weep  away  some  of  her  excited  pleasure. 

As  they  were  passing  down  the  stairs  to  the  rear 
entrance,  where  the  carriage  was  stationed,  one  of  the 
workmen  of  the  hall  put  a  folded  slip  of  paper  in  her 
hand.  Looking  at  it  hastily,  she  saw  by  the  initials 
at  the  bottom,  that  it  was  from  Norman  Locke.  He 
had  been  there,  although  she  had  not  discovered  his 
presence. 

Hagar  was  tremblingly  glad  that  her  mother  had 
not  noticed  the  incident,  for  she  wished  to  bear  this 
grief  alone — it  was  sacred. 

When  disrobing  for  the  night,  she  had  an  opportu- 
nity to  peruse  the  note  carefully.  Thus  it  ran.  It 
was  written  almost  illegibly,  in  pencil. 

"  Oh,  Hagar !  I  can  save  you  all  this  !  Such  a  life 
is  without  your  sphere — you  were  made  to  love,  and 
receive  love,  and  not  to  gather  Fame. 

"  Be,  then,  my  cherished  and  honored  wife — fulfill 
your  destiny,  for  I  am  yours  as  certainly  as  God 
meant  you  to  be  mine  ! 


THE     STORY     OF    HAGAR.  295 

"  Hagar,  you  were  born  for  me — without  you,  I  am 
nothing — you  must  be  mine !  Do  not  think  to  fly 
from  me.  I  shall  follow  you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
If  you  go  to  Italy,  as  they  say  you  will,  I  shall  pur- 
sue and  haunt  you  till  you  yield.  I  am  reckless  and 
violent  when  my  passions  are  aroused. 

"  Oh,  Hagar  ! — my  own,  my  decreed  wife — give  me 
up  your  love !  I  am  less  to  Jacqueline  than  the  earth 
she  treads.  I  have  tried  her — assayed  the  affection 
she  professes,  and  found  it  dross.  Yet  I  cannot  break 
my  word,  until  you  give  me  a  holy  and  imperative 
right. 

"  I  am  a  man  of  honor ;  I  will  sacrifice  even  YOU 
for  my  honor's  sake.  Say  but  you  will  marry  me,  and 
I  am  free  to  act — acknowledge  that  your  happiness 
depends  upon  the  rupture  of  my  tie  with  Jacqueline, 
and  I  will  break  it  guiltlessly. 

"  I  beg  of  you,  Hagar,  give  up  your  scruples  ;  they 
become  false  and  sinful  when  so  much  is  at  stake. 
Write  to  me — give  me  but  the  least  sign,  and  all  will 
yet  be  well.  For  me,  everything  is  risked.  I  am  in 
your  power — you  can  do  with  me  as  you  will. 
Shape  my  course  upward  or  downward — dower  me 
with  heaven  or  hell ;  you  have  at  your  mercy 

"N.  L. 

"  I  am  staying  at  the hotel.     Oh,  Hagar  ! 


290  THE     STORY     OF     IIAGAtt. 

you  will  never  be  so  loved  again,  should  you  live  until 
God  destroys  the  world  !" 

She  read  this  strange  and  contradictory  note  with 
some  tears  and  much  sorrow.  That  a  man  so  care- 
fully punctilious  of  his  honor,  could  still  persist  in.  de- 
manding the  sacrifice  of  her  own,  were  two  things  she 
found  hard  to  reconcile  together. 

Hagar's  was  not  an  everyday  character.  Most 
women,  circumstanced  like  herself,  would  have  yielded 
to  the  promptings  of  nature ;  but  with  her,  principle 
triumphed  over  passion. 

She  placed  the  note  under  her  pillow  and  wept  her- 
self to  sleep.  Her  tears,  strange  to  say,  were  those  of 
mingled  joy  and  grief — joy  for  her  public  success,  grief 
for  her  ill-fated  affection. 

She  knew  that  she  should  never  become  the  wife  of 
Mr.  Locke.  His  love  for  her  had  grown  up  like 
sudden  flame,  and  like  flame,  she  thought  that  it  was 
fated  to  perish. 

The  next  day,  Norman  Locke  received  from  Hagar 
the  following  brief  answer : 

"  I  cannot  unsay  what  I  have  said.  ONK  above  saw 
the  unalterable  sincerity  I  felt,  when  I  uttered  those 
words.  Oh,  Mr.  Locke,  give  the  affection  you  offer 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

me  to  Jacqueline.     She  is  worthy  of  that  happiness — 
she  loves  you  with  a  true  woman's  devotion. 

"  I  suffer  from  this  as  bitterly  as  you,  but  God  helps 
me  to  bear  my  burden  patiently.  Oh,  Mr.  Locke, 
there  is  no  consolation  like  to  His  !" 

The  strong  man  wept  like  a  child,  as  he  read. 
He  bowed  his  head  upon  his  clenched  hands,  and 
moaned — 

"  Then,  God  console  me  !" 

Norman  Locke  did  not  follow  Hagar  to  Italy.  Six 
months  after,  Jacqueline  Randolph  became  his  wedded 
wife. 


IT  was  on  a  Sunday  that  Charity  and  Hagar  sailed 
for  Italy.  There  was  peace  in  the  day  and  in  the  air. 
The  sounds  of  labor  had  all  ceased, — not  even  the 
rumble  of  wheels  was  heard  in  the  broad  and  silent 
streets.  Peal  after  peal  of  soft  Sabbath  bells  was  all 
that  met  the  ear.  To  Hagar,  they  were  laden  with 
balm.  As  the  vessel  moved  from  her  moorings, 
solemn  and  sad,  they  rang  out  upon  the  still  air,  filling 
it  with  holy  music.  Thoughts  of  patient  resignation 
came  with  them,  quelling  the  misery  of  her  who  list- 

13 


298  THE     BTORY     OF     HAUAR. 

ened.     It  was  the  last  sound  she  heard  as  the  steamer 
left  the  American  shores. 


ALL  that  young  girl's  soul  was  with  her  Art.  She 
turned  to  it  the  entire  strength  of  her  being,  and  in  it 
sought  forgetfulness  for  the  past. 

Mr.  Van  Dyke  had  given  her  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion to  Count  Silva,  one  of  the  principal  patrons  of 
a  musical  dramatic  college,  in  Naples.  On  this  letter 
hung  all  Hagar's  hopes. 

A  few  days  after  their  arrival  in  the  Italian  city, 
Charity  sent  the  letter  to  the  Count,  accompanied 
with  her  own  and  Hagar's  card.  In  the  evening  of 
the  same  day,  the  gentleman  himself  called  upon 
them,  and  what  with  his  imperfect  English,  and  the 
help  of  Hagar's  still  more  imperfect  knowledge  of 
Italian,  gave  them  to  understand  that  the  school  was 
already  overstocked  with  pupils,  and  not  even  to 
oblige  his  amico,  Mr.  Van  Dyke,  could  he  add  to  the 
number. 

Charity,  however,  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  said  this 
merely  because  disappointed  in  Hagar's  unattractive 
appearance,  and  her  face,  latterly,  had  indeed  acquir- 
ed a  stolid  expression,  far  removed  from  that  of  a 
musical  genius.  It  was  evident  to  her  that  the  Count 


THE     STOKY     OF     HAGAR.  299 

fancied  he  was  escaping  from  introducing  an  extreme- 
ly undesirable  dead  weight  in-  the  establishment  under 
his  patronage. 

Hagar  also,  read  the  real  meaning  of  his  excuse.  It 
did  not  alarm  her.  She  knew  the  exact  merit  of  her 
glorious  organ.  When  the  Count  rose,  and,  with  a 
great  deal  of  Italian  suavity,  was  bowing  himself  out, 
expressing  his  regret  at  his  inability  to  oblige  them, 
Hagar  said  to  him,  with  some  malicious  satisfaction, 
although  he  had  not  offered  to  try  her  voice — 

"  Will  you  not  hear  me  sing,  Signer  ?" 

He-  hesitated  for  an  instant — looked  as  if  he  wished 
himself  somewhere  else,  and  then,  his  native  gallantry 
coming  to  the  rescue,  expressed  delighted  willingness 
to  listen  to  her. 

Hagar  was  not  at  all  frightened.  She  had  never  felt 
cooler  in  her  life,  than  when  she  sat  dowrf  to  the  in- 
strument, and  she  was  well  aware  that  the  Count  was 
a  critical  judge  of  music,  an  amateur  composer  him- 
self, and  a  distinguished  patron  of  the  Art 

With  perfect  self-possession,  and  an  ease  at  which 
she  herself  was  astonished,  she  began  a  canzonette 
that  she  had  learned  since  leaving  America.  It  was 
quite  pretty,  and  displayed  her  clear  upper  notes  very 
finely,  in  a  sort  of  Tyroline  refrain  at  its  conclusion. 

The  effect  on  Count  Silva  was  all  that  Hagar  could 
desire.  He  sprang  from  his  seat,  without  uttering  a 


300  THE     STORY     OF     IIAGAR. 

word,  rushed  to  the  piano,  and  examined  the  sheet  of 
music  from  which  she  had  been  singing. 

"  Did  you  use  this  key  ?"  he  demanded,  abruptly — 
"  or  did  you  make  a  lower  transposition  ?" 

"  I  sang  it  exactly  as  it  is  written,"  was  the  com- 
posed response. 

"  Madre  di  Dio ! — is  it  possible  your  voice  has  such 
power  in  its  upper  register  ?  Sing  it  again — or,  no, 
just  try  the  refrain." 

She  complied.  He  was  evidently  astonished  at  the 
quality  and  compass  of  voice  which  she  displayed. 

"  Signorina !"  he  exclaimed,  with  unaffected  sin- 
cerity— "  I  congratulate  you.  As  far  as  I  can  judge 
from  your  execution  of  this  canzonette,  you  possess  a 
rare  and  admirable  organ — will  you  allow  me  to  hear 
you  try  another  and  more  difficult  solo,  before  pro- 
nouncing critically  on  its  merits  ?" 

Hagar  now  felt  slightly  alarmed.  With  some  trepi- 
dation she  sought  for  her  copy  of  "  Qui  la  Voce,'' 
which  she  rightly  esteemed  her  master-piece. 

Her  embarrassment  increased  when  Count  Silva  in- 
sisted on  accompanying  her  himself. 

When  she  had  finished,  she  had  the  mortification  of 
knowing  that  she  had  by  no  means  done  herself  jus- 
tice. The  Count  praised  her  highly,  however,  and  to 
the  great  delight  of  the  poor,  friendless,  and  ambitious 
girl,  told  her,  although  there  was  much  for  her  both  to 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  301 

learn  and  unlearn,  her  voice  was  so  uncommonly  fine, 
that  it  deserved  every  advantage  of  cultivation.  He 
ended  by  complimenting  her  correct  taste,  and  assur- 
ing her  that  she  should  be  admitted  to  the  col- 
lege if  twenty  other  pupils  were  displaced  to  receive 
her. 

Then  kissing  her  hand,  he  went  away. 

The  next  morning,  Hagar  was  introduced  to  the 
maestro  of  the  Institution,  and,  after  passing  the 
necessary  examinations,  was  admitted  as  a  student, — 
the  annual  payment,  being,  fortunately  for  her,  a 
merely  nominal  affair.  This  circumstance  enabled 
her  to  commence  an  additional  course  of  private  les- 
sons with  one  of  the  best  masters  in  Naples. 

Her  improvement  was  rapid.  She  astonished  and 
delighted  all  who  were  interested  in  her  progress,  by 
her  zeal  and  perseverance.  So  great  was  her  assi- 
duity— so  unconquerable  her  application  to  the  study 
of  her  beloved  Art,  that  Charity  became  alarmed  for 
her  health.  Her  fragile  form  grew  daily  more  slender, 
her  face  thinner  and  older  looking,  while  a  bright,  hec- 
tic flush,  burned  ever  upon  her  cheeks,  and  a  sensation 
similar  to  that  she  had  felt 'at  Randolph  Farm,  very 
often  flashed  through  her  chest. 

Charity  tried  to  reason  with  her,  and  pointed  out 
the  absolute  necessity  for  occasional  rest  and  exercise  ; 
but  the  excited  enthusiasm  that  was  gradually  causing 

13* 


302  THE      STORY     OF     UAGAR. 

the  spirit  to  wear  away  the  frame,  grew  impatient  of 
control. 

Count  Silva  became  one  of  their  best  friends. 
Although  naturally  exacting  and  selfish,  towards  those 
whom  he  liked,  he  was  as  amiable  and  genial  as  could 
be  desired.  To  Hagar,  he  took  an  especial  fancy. 
Independently  of  her  talent,  her  gentleness  pleased 
him,  from  its  agreeable  contrast  with  the  dispositions 
of  his  own  country-women. 

To  the  Count,  Hagar  owed  many  a  pleasant  drive, 
and  glimpse  of  country  verdure,  for  which  she  would 
otherwise  have  longed  in  vain,  and  for  another  and 
vaster  delight,  she  was  likewise  indebted  to  him.  The 
Count  possessed  a  box  at  the  Opera,  and  quite  fre- 
quently placed  it  at  the  disposal  of  his  protege"  and 
her  mother. 

There,  Hagar  first  heard  what  great  singing  was — 
there  first  beheld  the  magnificence  of  impassioned 
acting,  and  there,  I  need  scarcely  say,  her  own  ambi- 
tion was  still  more  strengthened  and  excited. 

Years — two  fleeting  years  mingled  with  the  past. 
Years  of  misery  and  happiness,  struggles  and  peace, 
contest  and  victory  to  Hagar.  She  was  now  nearly 
twenty  years  of  age. 


THE     STORY     OF     HA  GAR. 


303 


IT  was  the  night  of  her  debut.  She  had  grown  per- 
fectly fearless  of  its  results,  and  dreaded  it  not ;  a 
sublime  courage  was  infused  into  her  very  soul.  She 
felt  as  though  she  could  have  gone  before  the  whole 
world,  and  defied  intimidation  from  it. 

A  legion  of  demons  thrusting  despair  at  her  spirit, 
could  not  have  impaired  her  faith  in  her  own  beautiful 
steadfastness. 

The  shadow  of  angel  wings  hovered  over  her  even 
then. 

The  Opera  was  injudiciously  chosen.  Count  Silva 
was  its  composer.  It  was  new,  and  called  by  the 
whimsical  title  of  "  II  Prieco  D'Amore."  Although 
scientifically  composed,  and  full  of  thrilling  detached 
beauties,  it  was  heavy  and  inglorious  as  a  whole.  The 
plot  of  the  libretto  was  barbarously  wild  and  unnatural 
— the  product  of  some  rabid  imagination  let  loose. 

Count  Silva  had  written  this  Opera  for  Hagar ;  he 
had  studied  her  voice,  and  adapted  the  part  of  the 
principal  character  to  it.  From  very  gratitude  for 
those  two  years  of  kindness,  she  could  not  refuse  his 
request  to  perform'  in  "  II  Prieco  D'Amore,"  on  the 
night  of  her  debut.  She  would  have  preferred  to  have 
chosen  another  and  popular  creation,  an  Opera  by  one 
of  the  composers  of  the  people  ;  but  to  Silva  she 
owed  a  debt  of  thankfulness,  and,  at  any  sacrifice,  she 
determined  to  repay  him. 


304  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

She  knew  the  work  could  not  but  fail,  or,  at  best,  be 
"  damned  with  faint  praise  ;"  yet  heroically  she  vowed 
to  save  it  if  she  could  from  its  impending  destiny. 

It  was  placed  upon  the  stage  with  perfect  scenery 
and  surroundings ;  gold  was  lavished  on  it  in  showers, 
for  its  princely  author  longed  for  Fame, — and,  alas  ! 
after  thirsting  and  toiling  for  it,  found  at  length  that  he 
had  bowed  at  the  shrine  of  the  unattainable  and  far. 

II  Prieco  D'Amore  failed.  Its  libretto  alone  would 
have  dragged  it  down.  Not  even  with  Italians  could 
such  fantastic  imaginings  succeed  ! 


Great  heaven !  whose  were  those  flashing,  burn- 
ing eyes,  gleaming  down  upon  the  young  prima 
donna  ? 

She  had  braved  the  scorn  and  hisses  of  the  outrag- 
ed audience — she  had  stood  undaunted  before  their 
frantic  disappointment ;  but,  beneath  the  power  of 
those  two  eyes,  she  sank  abashed. 

There  was  something  in  them  that  revived,  she 
knew  not  how, — old  thoughts,  old  feelings, — they 
thrilled  her  with  recollections  of  a  wild  dream,  faded 
long  ago — forgotten — despised. 

The  curtain  fell. 

Hagar  left  her  mother  gesticulating  violently,  as  she 


THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR.  305 

spoke  to  the  excited  maestro,  at  one  of  the  wings,  and 
staggered  to  her  dressing-room. 

Standing  at  its  entrance  she  beheld,  as  she  felt  she 
should  behold,  NORMAN  LOCKE. 

No  word  of  greeting  passed  his  lips — no  sign  of  re- 
cognition took  place  between  them;  but,  coming  to 
meet  her,  he  said,  hoarsely — 

"  At  last,  thank  God,  I  MAY  claim  your  love ! 
Jacqueline  is  an  angel  in  heaven  !  /  am  free  /" 

She  looked  at  him  as  though  he  were  a  dream- 
phantom — a  creature  of  her  own  brain.  He  appeared 
like  one  broken  down  with  age  and  infirmities.  By 
the  deep  set  lines  of  his  ever-expressive  face,  it  was 
evident  he  had  been  "  a  man  of  sorrows,  acquainted 
with  grief."  His  cheeks  were  sunken,  and  his  eyes 
glittering  with  the  unnatural  brightness  of  excite- 
ment. 

Hagar  did  not  utter  a  word.  Her  gaze  was  fixed, 
riveted,  fascinated,  as  it  were,  upon  him. 

How  could  she  speak  ?  How  tell  him,  then  and 
there,  that  she  deemed  her  old  passion  for  him  a  mere 
infatuation  of  her  youth  ?  How  say  to  him,  that  as 
time  healed  the  first  bitterness  of  her  feelings,  she  had 
grown  to  rejoice  at  her  escape — to  look  upon  him  as 
unworthy  of  her  love — how  tell  him  that  ? 

A  dimness  came  over  all  around  her.     The  old  sen- 


306  THE     STORY     OF     HAGAR. 

sation  of  sharp  pain  vibrated  in  her  breast — uttering  a 
faint  cry,  she  fell. 

Wildly  catching  her  in  his  strong  arms,  Norman 
Locke  called  for  assistance.  It  came  too  late.  The 
drama  of  her  life  was  ended. 

Haaar  was  DEAD  ! 


THE    END. 


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